THE  RECONNAISSANCE 

CORDON    GARDINER 


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THE  RECONNAISSANCE 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •    CHICAGO 
DALLAS   •    ATLANTA    •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

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THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


"RIGHT    OH!"       WHISPERED    THE    OTHER    AGAIN; 
AND  THEY  SET  OFF  INTO  THE  NIGHT. 


THE  RECONNAISSANCE 


BY 

GORDON  GARDINER 


WITH    FRONTISPIECE    BY 

GEORGE  HARPER 


All  rights  reserved 


COPTRIGHT,  1014 

BT  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  February,  1914 


(To 

&.  J¥t.  C. 
Jf .  g>.  6. 


2135S51 


THE  RECONNAISSANCE 


THE  RECONNAISSANCE 


CHAPTER  I 

DUSK  was  falling  on  the  veld.  The  rolling 
contours  of  the  vast  brown  expanse  were  sink- 
ing minute  by  minute  into  a  deep  obscurity  that 
seemed  to  creep  out  of  the  earth  itself.  The  west 
was  still  an  enormous  glow  of  saffron  and  gold 
into  which  the  outlines  of  heavy  clouds  on  the 
horizon  ran  black  and  sharp  like  the  promon- 
tories of  a  distant  coastline.  In  the  eastern  sky 
and  overhead  the  stars  were  coming  out  brightly, 
and  were  touching  with  points  of  palest  gilt  the 
peacock  green  above  the  sunset.  A  chill  breeze 
came  from  the  south,  stirred  the  mimosas  and 
died  away. 

In  a  shallow  donga  strewn  with  boulders,  a 
man  was  lying.  He  was  almost  concealed  by  the 
bushes  which  grew  on  the  edge  of  the  depression, 
and  about  the  base  of  the  little  bare  kopje  above. 
Suddenly  he  half -rolled,  half -eased  himself  fur- 
ther out  of  the  shadow  of  the  mimosas  and  kar- 
ree-booms,  pulling  a  Martini-Henry  rifle  with 


2  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

him.  Gripping  a  boulder  larger  than  its  neigh- 
bours, he  raised  himself  laboriously  to  a  sitting 
posture — then  sank  back  against  the  rock  with  a 
groan.  His  face  whitened  and  the  handkerchief 
that  bound  his  right  leg  just  above  the  knee 
dripped  with  a  sudden  rush  of  blood.  The  man 
opened  his  eyes,  leaned  forward  painfully,  drew 
the  cleaning-rod  from  his  rifle,  shoved  it  through 
the  folds  of  the  handkerchief,  and  twisted  it 
round.  Having  stopped  the  bleeding  tempo- 
rarily, he  began  to  bandage  his  wound  and  fix 
the  tourniquet  in  its  place  with  the  puttie  he  had 
taken  from  his  left  leg.  The  effort  was  all  but 
too  much  for  him;  he  paused  often,  and  time 
after  time  seemed  on  the  point  of  fainting.  The 
perspiration  came  out  on  his  forehead  and 
trickled  into  his  eyes  and  down  his  nose;  with  a 
curse  he  ducked  his  head  into  the  crook  of  his 
right  arm  and  wiped  his  brow  against  the  sleeve. 
In  spite  of  his  weakness  he  wound  and  folded 
the  improvised  bandage  with  grim  determina- 
tion, and  a  skill  that  told  of  long  practice  in  the 
art  of  putting  on  the  old-fashioned  straight  put- 
tie ;  and  as  he  worked  he  listened.  The  west  still 
shone,  but  the  hollow  where  he  lay  was  now  al- 
most dark;  the  breeze  had  died  away;  from  out 
of  the  immense,  dry  space  came  innumerable 
whisperings  and  rustlings ;  a  night-bird  called  in 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  3 

the  distance.  With  a  quick  twist  the  man  fixed 
the  puttie  in  place  and  grabbed  his  rifle.  For 
some  moments  he  hearkened  intently,  then,  lay- 
ing the  weapon  across  his  thighs,  bent  over  it 
and,  loosening  the  fold,  returned  to  his  painful 
bandaging. 

He  was  spare  and  wiry,  of  middle  height,  per- 
haps thirty  years  of  age.  Crippled  though  he 
was,  his  bearing  was  alert  and  composed,  and  his 
bronzed  face,  drooping  moustache,  clipped  black 
head  and  straight  back,  all  bore  the  stamp  of  his 
calling.  He  wore  a  tunic  of  a  faded  chocolate 
colour,  with  stripes  on  the  arm,  corduroy 
breeches  and  heavy  boots  with  spurs ;  a  bandolier 
was  slung  across  his  chest,  and  by  his  feet  lay  a 
regulation  slouch  hat  the  broad  brim  of  which 
was  pinned  up  on  the  left  side.  North  of  Vry- 
burg  in  the  nineties,  any  dweller  on  the  veld, 
black  or  white,  would  have  recognised  him  at 
sight  as  a  sergeant  of  the  Protectorate  Frontier 
Mounted  Police. 

A  noise  as  of  iron  striking  against  stone  came 
from  the  darkness  on  his  right.  Without  paus- 
ing to  fix  the  bandage  the  sergeant  grasped  his 
rifle  and,  holding  it  at  the  ready,  peered  over  his 
shoulder.  There  was  a  sound  of  hurried  stum- 
bling, and  a  figure,  bent  almost  double,  darted 
over  the  shoulder  of  the  kopje,  burst  through 


4  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

the  bushes  and  dropped  heavily  into  the  donga. 
After  floundering  about  among  the  stones,  the 
newcomer  straightened  himself  and  peered 
round. 

The  sergeant  leaned  forward:  "Look  out, 
you  fool!"  he  said  in  a  sharp  undertone,  "lie 
down!" 

With  a  start  of  obvious  relief,  the  other 
dropped  on  his  hands  and  knees.  For  a  moment 
both  men  listened  breathlessly.  Then  the  new- 
comer began  to  crawl.  Half  rising  on  one  knee, 
the  sergeant  made  an  angry  gesture  of  caution, 
then,  doubling  up,  fell  back  with  a  groan.  His 
companion,  disregarding  the  signal,  continued 
to  creep  up  the  donga  and,  reaching  his  side, 
sank  down,  dislodging  a  stone  noisily.  The 
wounded  man's  face  shone  livid  in  the  darkness ; 
seizing  the  other  by  the  collar  he  thrust  a  hand 
over  his  mouth  and  held  him  still,  with  a  tense- 
ness more  peremptory  and  menacing  than  any 
word. 

For  what  seemed  to  the  newcomer  intermi- 
nable moments,  the  two  men  listened.  The  great 
expanse  around  was  almost  dark ;  the  glow  in  the 
west  was  fading  to  a  pale  radiance  against  which 
the  sombre  clouds  seemed  more  than  ever  like 
desolate  capes  and  bays  by  a  limitless  sea.  The 
breeze  from  the  south  rose  and  fell ;  the  mimosas 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  5 

whispered  on  every  side,  and,  above  the  men,  the 
kopje  seemed  as  full  of  noises  as  a  haunted 
house.  To  some  of  these  sounds  the  sergeant 
appeared  to  give  no  heed,  while  at  others  his 
fingers  tightened  on  his  companion  with  a 
twitch,  imperative  and  alarming.  Suddenly  he 
groaned,  his  grasp  relaxed  and  he  sank  back. 
The  newcomer  leaned  over  him  and,  putting  a 
hand  on  his  arm,  was  about  to  speak,  but  the 
wounded  man's  face  contorted  itself  into  an 
expression  of  warning  so  discomposing  that  the 
other  drew  back  in  silence. 

The  newcomer  was  very  tall — some  inches 
over  six  feet.  He  wore  a  uniform  similar  to  the 
sergeant's,  but  new  and  smart  looking,  and  his 
boyish,  handsome  face  showed  in  the  semi-dark- 
ness a  skin  that  had  scarcely  begun  to  tan  and 
harden  under  the  sun,  wind  and  dust  of  the 
veld.  In  spite  of  his  hurried  and  furtive  move- 
ments, his  bearing  was  unusually  graceful,  and 
the  set  of  his  shoulders  and  back  powerful  and 
athletic. 

For  some  seconds  he  lay  motionless,  propped 
on  his  elbow,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  listen- 
ing uncomprehendingly  to  the  myriad  faint 
noises  of  the  night.  All  at  once  the  stillness  of 
his  companion  startled  him :  seizing  the  other  by 
the  arm  he  leaned  forward. 


6  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"What's  up,  sergeant?"  he  whispered.  "Are 
you  hurt?" 

With  a  start  the  other  shook  him  off.  "Let 
go!  Where  are  the  horses?" 

"They've  bolted." 

"Bolted!"  The  wounded  man  sat  up  with  a 
jerk. 

"Yes,  when  the  niggers  gave  that  frightful 
yell — when  I  thought  they'd  found  you — your 
mare  pulled  back,  and  my  horse  jumped  between 
her  and  me  and  tore  the  reins  out  of  my  hand — 
and "  He  stopped. 

"What  in  blazes  were  you  doing?"  The  ser- 
geant, supporting  himself  against  the  boulder, 
leaned  over  him.  "What  did  you  let  them  get 
tied  up  like  that  for?" 

"They  weren't  tied  up.  I — I  was  holding 
them  that  way." 

"My  God!  I  knew  you  weren't  much  good 
even  for  a  recruity,  but  I  did  think  you  could 
'hold  horses'."  The  sergeant  gripped  the  other's 
elbow.  "D'you  see  what  you've  done?  Here  we 
are  seven  miles  out,  with  the  main  impi  of  the 
Amatongas  making  straight  for  us,  and  I  can't 
move  a  foot!" 

The  younger  man  stared  at  the  speaker;  at 
the  last  words  he  threw  out  his  hand  appeal- 
ingly.  "I'm  frightfully  sorry,  sergeant!  I 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  7 

didn't  know!  Where  are  you  hurt?  Is  it  bad? 

I'm  frightfully  sorry "  He  peered  up  and 

down  the  prostrate  figure  beside  him,  and,  catch- 
ing sight  of  the  tourniquet  and  bandage,  moved 
his  hand  out  uncertainly. 

"Oh,  damn  your  sorrow!"  The  sergeant 
struck  away  the  hand,  "What  on  earth  were  you 
doing?  Had  you  the  mare  on  the  long  rein?" 

The  trooper  started.  "Yes,"  he  said  un- 
willingly. 

"On  the  off  side  of  your  horse?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  were  on  the  near  side — with  your 
reins  on  your  horse's  neck:  was  that  it?"  The 
speaker's  low  tones  became  violent  and  men- 
acing. 

The  trooper  stared  at  him  mutely. 

"Answer,  damn  you!" 

Again  the  younger  man  jumped.  "Yes — 
I "  He  stopped  and  moistened  his  lips. 

The  other,  glaring  at  him,  swayed.  His  eyes 
blinked,  but,  passing  his  hand  quickly  over  his 
forehead,  he  pulled  himself  together.  "You 
young  swine!"  he  said  slowly,  "if  we  ever  get 
back  I'll  give  you  hell  for  this!  You  thought 
you'd  make  it  all  right  for  yourself,  did  you — 
thought  you'd  play  one  of  your  blasted  recruity 
tricks  and  make  sure  if  anything  happened  you 


8  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

could  hop  on  and  clear — while  I  was  to  take  my 
chance,  was  I?  You "  He  fell  back  sud- 
denly and  lay  still. 

The  trooper,  horrified,  bent  over  him.  "I'm 
sorry,  sergeant !  Do  forgive  me — I've  told  you 
I'm  sorry  I  I  swear  I  didn't  mean  it  the  way 
you  think!  Try  and  speak,  for  heaven's  sake. 
Are  you  badly  hurt?"  He  put  his  hand  on  the 
wounded  man's  brow,  then  tore  open  the  collar 
of  his  tunic.  The  sergeant  gave  a  gasp,  opened 
his  eyes  and,  shoving  the  other  away,  struggled 
up  on  his  elbow  again.  "What?"  he  growled, 
putting  his  hand  to  his  head. 

"Can't  I  do  anything?"  implored  his  com- 
panion. "Are  you  badly  hurt?" 

Raising  himself  a  little  higher  and  feeling 
painfully  for  the  boulder,  the  sergeant  eased 
back  on  it.  "I've  got  a  jab  on  the  knee.  One  of 
them  let  fly  into  the  bushes  with  his  assegai  as 
he  passed  and  got  me.  I  don't  know  whether 
they  spotted  me  or  not — they  were  in  the  deuce 
of  a  hurry.  Did  they  see  you?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  I  was  right  down  below 
them.  I  saw  one  of  them  going  by  against  the 
skyline."  The  trooper's  voice  shook.  "What  a 
— what  a  fearful  row  they  made!"  He  looked 
quickly  behind  him. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  9 

"Damn  their  row!"  said  the  sergeant.  "Here, 
lend  a  hand  and  tie  this.  I'm  about  done !" 

The  younger  man  bent  over,  and,  taking  the 
end  of  the  puttie,  began  wrapping  the  long  tape 
round  the  bandaged  limb.  His  hand  trembled. 
"Is  it — is  it  bad?"  he  asked  again. 

"How  the  deuce  can  I  tell?"  said  the  sergeant 
irritably.  Directing  the  other's  fingers,  he 
pulled  the  coils  of  tape  into  position.  "It  feels 
bad  enough.  Steady!  Don't  pull  it  too  tight. 
That'll  do.  Now  tie  it.  Tie  it,  man!  That 
won't  hold.  Good  Lord,  can't  you  even  tie  a 
puttie!  Get  out — give  it  me!"  Snatching  the 
end  of  the  tape  and  passing  it  under  the  two 
previous  coils,  he  fixed  it  neatly.  "There. 
Lord!"  He  sank  back. 

"Sergeant,  sergeant,  don't  do  that — wake 
up!"  The  other  caught  him  urgently  by  the 
arm.  Getting  no  reply,  the  boy  glanced  round 
desperately.  "I  wish  to  goodness  I  had  some 
brandy!" 

The  wounded  man  opened  an  eye.  "So  do  I," 
he  said  grimly,  "that's  bolted  with  the  horses!" 

"Sergeant,  do  let  me  explain!  I  didn't  mean 
—honestly — to ' ' 

"Oh  shut  up,"  said  the  older  man  roughly. 
"They've  gone,  and  there's  an  end  to  it!  Here, 
lend  a  hand!"  He  raised  himself  and,  stretch- 


10  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

ing  out  an  arm  so  that  his  companion  could  put 
a  hand  underneath  his  shoulder-blade,  he  caught 
the  other  round  the  neck  and  pulled  himself  into 
a  sitting  position.  "Thanks.  Got  a  handker- 
chief on  you?" 

The  trooper  hastily  produced  one  from  his 
breeches  pocket  and,  handing  it  to  his  comrade, 
watched  with  an  expression  of  relief,  while  the 
latter  wiped  his  brow  and  neck  and  moustache. 
"The  only  thing  now,"  resumed  the  sergeant 
sharply,  "is  for  you  to  get  a  move  on  you,  and 
darned  quick,  too !" 

The  younger  man  gave  a  violent  start.  "How 
d'you  mean?" 

"Mean?  What  I  say!  We've  got  to  get  the 
news  to  Graham  before  he  sends  out  the  next 
patrol,  or  they'll  get  cut  up.  It'll  take  you 
about  all  you  know  to  do  those  seven  miles  in 
time.  Get  out!" 

The  trooper  drew  back.  "You  mean — you 
mean  back  to  Fort  Derby?"  Again  he  glanced 
hurriedly  into  the  darkness. 

"Where  on  earth  else?  What's  the  matter 
with  you?" 

The  younger  man  drew  further  into  the  shad- 
ows of  the  mimosas.  "Nothing,"  he  said  indis- 
tinctly. 

"Well  then,  clear!    Your  only  chance  is  to 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  H 

strike  for  Derby  before  the  first  lot  of  the  Ama- 
tongas  get  between  us  and  there.  We've  a 
couple  of  hours  yet — perhaps  more.  Nip  off 
for  all  you're  worth.  Go  straight  to  Graham. 
Tell  him  I  saw  about  seventy  of  them  coming 
up  from  the  south-west,  heading  north.  They 
were  an  advance  party  from  the  main  column, 
returning  on  their  tracks,  I  think,  but  I'm  not 
sure.  Tell  him  they  were  going  very  fast.  I 
don't  think  they  saw  us." 

"But  I'm  to  tell  him  you're  out  here — wound- 
ed?" said  the  other  hoarsely. 

"Hang  it,  yes!  Tell  him  that  too,  of  course! 
He'll  probably  send  out  the  whole  crowd  for 
me.  If  these  devils  haven't  got  me  by  that  time, 
I'll  be  all  right,  I  expect.  Anyway,  the  main 
thing  is  to  get  the  news  in  to  Derby  before 
Slade's  patrol  starts  out  and  gets  cut  up.  You 
know  your  way?" 

"I — I  think  so — I'm  not  sure " 

"Hell  and  Tommy!  You're  not  sure?"  The 
sergeant's  voice  rose.  Restraining  himself  with 
an  effort,  he  leaned  towards  the  other  and 
pointed  over  the  neck  of  the  kopje.  "Listen. 
You  know  your  way  to  Wheeler's?" 

The  trooper  gazed  along  the  other's  arm. 
"Yes,"  he  said  uncertainly. 

Still  pointing,  the  sergeant  turned. 


12  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Do  you?    Speak  out,  will  you!" 

His  companion  swallowed.     "Yes!"  he  said. 

"Well" — the  sergeant  dropped  his  arm  and 
sank  back.  "Keep  along  his  kopjes  till  you 
come  to  Kampfer's  Kloof — mind  you  don't  miss 
it.  Up  it  and  round  by  Macdonald's.  You 
may  find  a  picket  there.  If  you  do,  tell  whoever 
is  in  charge  to  send  in  word  to  Graham — some 
of  them  may  come  straight  back  for  me  with 
you.  If  there's  nobody,  push  straight  on — it's 
plain  sailing  from  there.  But  for  heaven's 
sake  look  out!  Don't  go  falling  about  like  you 
did  just  now — these  brutes  may  be  all  over  the 
place  by  this  time — and  look  out  at  the  Kloof, 
whatever  you  do;  some  of  them  may  have 
nipped  down  there!  Now  then,  clear!" 

The  trooper  climbed  slowly  to  his  feet. 

"Where's  your  rifle?"  The  older  man  peered 
up  at  him. 

"I  left  it  by  the  horses,"  replied  the  other 
dully. 

"I  suppose  you  know  you  could  be  shot  for 
that!"  said  the  sergeant  harshly.  Then,  after  a 
pause,  as  the  other  made  no  response,  he  or- 
dered: "Go  and  get  it,  and  your  hat  too;  then 
come  back  and  let  me  have  a  look  at  you.  You 
ought  to  have  a  nurse,  you  fool !  Get  out !" 

The  trooper,  bending  forward  and  feeling 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  13 

with  his  feet,  began  to  make  his  way  among 
the  stones  of  the  donga.  His  progress  was 
slow;  more  than  once  he  stumbled  in  the  pro- 
found darkness  below  the  bush-grown  edge, 
and  a  cautioning  hiss  from  the  sergeant  brought 
him  up  sharp,  with  the  sweat  starting  from  his 
brow.  At  length  he  found  a  gap  hi  the  mimo- 
sas, and  climbing  through  it,  disappeared  over 
the  shoulder  of  the  kopje. 

The  sergeant  eased  himself  against  the 
boulder,  felt  his  knee  gingerly,  then  wiped  his 
forehead,  eyes  and  ears  with  the  handkerchief. 
Only  a  faint  sheen  remained  in  the  west;  the 
wind  had  fallen,  but  stray  puffs  of  hot  air  came 
up  the  donga,  mingling  with  the  cool  smell  of 
the  stones  under  the  bushes.  There  was  no 
moon;  a  mantle  of  velvet  darkness  lay  over  the 
great  space  around,  but  the  heavens  were  all 
festal  with  stars  twinkling,  like  the  myriad 
lights  of  a  celestial  city;  the  luminous  peace  of 
a  subtropical  night  hung  over  the  earth. 

A  bird  called  mournfully  in  the  distance.  The 
sergeant  stiffened.  Turning  his  head  sharply 
towards  the  kopje  he  seized  his  rifle.  A  noise 
of  stumbling  came  from  the  shoulder  of  the 
hill;  the  trooper,  carrying  his  rifle  and  wearing 
his  uniform  slouch  hat,  dropped  hurriedly 


14  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

through  the  bushes  and  again  made  his  way 
up  the  donga. 

"Sh!  man!"  The  sergeant  flapped  his  hand- 
kerchief urgently.  The  other  stopped  dead. 
For  some  moments  both  men  listened.  Then 
the  sergeant  moved  slightly.  "Take  your  spurs 
off,"  he  whispered. 

The  younger  man  bent.  Suddenly  he 
straightened  himself. 

"Sergeant?" 

"Well?" 

Putting  his  hand  to  his  throat  the  trooper 
gulped.  "Look  here,  sergeant — I'm  not  going! 
I'm  not  going  back  to  Derby  alone — and  leave 
you  here!" 

"What?"  The  other  dropped  his  handker- 
chief and  stared  at  him. 

"I'll  carry  you!  I  can  do  it  easily  if  you 
show  the  way.  We've  plenty  of  time.  I'm  not 
going  back  alone!" 

"We've  not  plenty  of  time,  you  fool!"  In 
the  gloom  the  sergeant's  face  whitened. 
"There's  just  time  for  you  to  get  there  and  tell 
Graham — and  no  more — perhaps  not  that!" 

"But  what  about  you?" 

"I'll  be  all  right,  I  tell  you!  For  God's  sake 
go  on!  Slade's  patrol  '11  get  cut  up  as  sure  as 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  15 

eggs  if  you  don't  buck  up.  You  can  send  out 
for  me.  Go  on.  Take  your  spurs  off." 

The  trooper  knelt  down  and  began  fumbling 
with  the  buckles  of  his  spurs.  The  cry  of  a 
night-bird  rose  loud  and  near  from  behind  the 
kopje.  The  sergeant,  shooting  out  his  arm, 
gripped  his  companion ;  both  men  crouched  mo- 
tionless. A  dark  figure  leaped  on  to  the  shoul- 
der of  the  hill  above  them.  Against  the  last 
paleness  in  the  west  he  seemed  enormous.  The 
shield  and  assegais  of  an  Amatonga  warrior  in 
full  array  were  in  his  grasp;  his  headdress  of 
immense,  black  ostrich  feathers  stirred  slightly 
as  he  stood  motionless,  listening.  Putting  a 
hand  to  his  mouth  he  sent  the  call  floating  over 
the  veld  once  more.  Again  he  hearkened,  and 
then,  with  plumes  and  the  tails  of  his  breechclout 
tossing,  he  dropped  into  the  darkness. 

For  perhaps  two  minutes  the  men  in  the 
donga  lay  motionless.  Then  the  cry  reached 
them,  again  from  behind  the  kopje,  but  dis- 
tant and  plaintive.  The  sergeant  relaxed  his 
hold  on  his  companion  and  sank  back.  "You've 
done  it  now!"  he  said. 

"What?" 

"Cooked  our  goose.  There's  no  getting  back 
now!  That's  one  of  their  vedettes.  They're 


16  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

between  us  and  Derby.  That's  what  comes  of 
talking." 

"I  don't  care!"  The  trooper  gesticulated  ex- 
citedly. "I  don't  care — I'm  not— 

"Shut  up!"  The  sergeant  caught  him  by  the 
elbow.  "It's  too  late  to  tell  Graham — you've 
bust  that — but  with  any  luck  you  can  save  your 
skin  yet  and  me  too.  Go  back  by  Lombard's — 
it's  a  long  way  round,  but  you  ought  to  make 
it  before  they  close  round  Derby.  Have  you 
been  that  way?" 

"No!  I'm  not  going,  I  tell  you!  I'm  not! 
There's  no  use  your  cursing  any  more!  I'm 
not  going!"  The  boy's  voice  rose  dangerously. 

"Sh!"  growled  the  sergeant,  gripping  his 
arm,  "quiet,  man!" 

"I  won't  be  quiet — I'm  not  going — I'm  not 
going  to  leave  you!"  repeated  the  other.  "I'd 
rather—  His  voice  rose  again. 

"Sh!  all  right,  man!"  The  sergeant  shook 
him  weakly.  "Stay,  then.  You're  a  fool.  It 
can't  do  me  any  good;  you're  simply  chucking 
your  life  away  for  nothing." 

"I'm  going  to  carry  you." 

"Rot."    The  sergeant  dropped  his  hold. 

"I  am!    We  can  go  by  Lombard's— 

"Lombard's!     You  damned  fool,  it  would 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  17 

have  taken  you  all  your  time  to  get  round  by 
Lombard's  on  your  own!  As  for  carrying 
me —  He  sank  back  with  a  gesture  of 

despair  and  utter  fatigue. 

"We  can  get  away  from  this,  anyway!"  The 
trooper  leant  forward  eagerly.  "The  south 
should  be  clear  for  a  bit,"  he  pointed  along  the 
donga — "down  there." 

The  sergeant  made  no  reply.  The  other, 
bending  over,  caught  him  by  the  shoulder. 
"D'you  hear?"  He  shook  him  roughly.  "Ser- 
geant! Do  you  hear  what  I  say?" 

The  wounded  man  turned  his  face  away. 
"Let  go!"  he  muttered. 

"I  won't  let  you  go.  Come  on,  for  Heaven's 
sake!  We  can't  stay  here!" 

The  sergeant's  eyes  snapped  open. 

"Let  go  my  shoulder,  curse  you!  You  do 
what  you  like.  Leave  me  alone!" 

The  trooper  relaxed  his  hold.  "Do  listen,  ser- 
geant," he  whispered,  "you're  feeling  bad;  don't 
give  up!  I'm  going  to  stick  by  you.  Get  on 
my  back.  I'm  as  fresh  as  anything.  It's  quite 
dark  now.  You  show  the  way  and  we'll  get 
clear  long  before  dawn.  Come  on!"  He  tugged 
his  comrade's  arm.  "Don't  stop  here!" 

"Let  go!"  snarled  the  other,  jerking  his  shoul- 


18  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

der;  then  with  a  groan:  "It's  all  damned  rot, 
you  can't  carry  me!" 

"I  can!  You're  a  light  weight  and  I'm  as 
strong  as  a  horse.  I've  been  telling  you  that 
all  the  time,  only  you  won't  listen.  Come  on!" 

The  sergeant  sat  up  painfully.  "It's  all  rot, 
I  tell  you — I  can't  move  a  foot " 

"Oh,  come  on!  Here,  take  my  hand!"  The 
trooper  jumped  up  and,  half -lifting,  half -pull- 
ing the  other  to  his  feet,  held  him  upright.  The 
sergeant  groaned  and  swayed  heavily.  The 
trooper  caught  him.  "Pull  yourself  together, 
for  heaven's  sake,  sergeant!  Hang  on  to  me. 
I  can't  do  anything  if  you  don't  lend  a  hand!" 

His  companion,  with  a  great  effort,  steadied 
himself.  "Right  oh!"  he  said  faintly. 

The  trooper,  still  supporting  him,  bent  down, 
then,  thinking  better  of  it,  put  his  arms  round 
his  comrade's  waist  and  lifted  him  bodily  on 
to  the  side  of  the  donga.  "Just  a  minute — can 

you?" 

"The  rifles!"  whispered  the  other. 

"All  right!"  said  the  trooper  irritably:  "give 
me  a  minute.  Can  you  stand?" 

"Yes." 

The  younger  man  bent  and  snatching  up 
the  rifles,  slung  one  on  the  sergeant.  Still  sup- 
porting his  companion  he  stooped  again,  this 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  19 

time  against  the  bank,  till  his  shoulders  were  on 
a  level  with  the  wounded  man's  thighs.  "Are 
you  ready?  Get  on.  Hang  on  to  my  neck." 
The  sergeant  half -climbed,  half -rolled,  on  to 
the  speaker's  back.  "That's  right.  Tell  me  if 
I  hurt  your  leg.  Wait  a  minute — take  my  ri- 
fle— let  me  get  my  arms  underneath.  Are  you 
all  right?" 

"Right,  oh,"  said  the  other  faintly. 

"Hold  on,  then.  Hang!"  The  trooper 
jumped,  nearly  dislodging  his  burden. 

"What's  up?" 

"For  heaven's  sake  look  out  for  your  spurs!" 

"Sorry,"  grunted  the  sergeant.  Then,  with 
a  faint  grin,  "You're  getting  your  own  back, 
young'un!  Shall  I  take  'em  off?" 

"No.  Look  out  with  them,  that's  all. 
Ready?" 

"Am  I  too  heavy?" 

"No"  repeated  the  younger  man  sharply, 
giving  the  other  a  final  hoist  into  position  and 
gripping  his  legs.  "Now  then,  hang  on !  Which 
way?" 

The  sergeant  motioned  with  his  hand  along 
the  bank  of  the  donga,  "Right  ahead.  Shove 
along." 

Lowering  his  head  and  curving  his  shoul- 


20  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

ders  still  further,  the  trooper  stepped  out  sturd- 
ily. "You  steer,"  he  said.  "I'll  look  out  for 
my  feet." 

"Right  oh!"  whispered  the  other  again;  and 
they  set  off  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER   II 

A  BLINDING  glare  of  sunshine  beat  on  the 
camp  of  the  Protectorate  Frontier  Mounted  Po- 
lice at  Macteali.  The  early-morning  breeze  had 
died  away ;  the  skirtings  of  the  tents  were  rolled 
up,  leaving  an  open  space  for  ventilation  of 
some  eighteen  inches  between  the  canvas  and 
the  ground.  In  the  still,  dry  air,  the  rows  of 
white  roofs  seemed  to  hover  over  their  coir- 
matting  floors,  while  the  tent-ropes  shimmered 
and  waved  in  the  refraction  which  danced  on 
the  surface  of  the  veld  as  over  a  kiln.  The  burn- 
ing hours  of  late  forenoon  were  dragging  by, 
and  in  the  profound  shadows  beneath  the  tent- 
roofs  the  men  off-duty  lay  among  bundles  of 
kit,  trying  to  sleep.  A  drowsy  stillness  had 
fallen  on  the  camp,  broken  only  by  a  whinny 
from  the  horse  lines  or  the  stamp  of  a  restless 
shoe,  and  the  ceaseless  buzzing  of  myriads  of 
flies. 

At  one  end  of  the  encampment  stood  the  or- 
derly-tent, somewhat  bigger  than  its  neighbours, 
and  furnished  with  a  large  awning.  Under 

21 


22  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

this,  and  directly  before  the  tent-opening,  stood 
a  deal  table  littered  with  papers  and  official 
files,  at  which,  seated  on  a  camp  chair,  Captain 
James  Robertson  was  writing  busily. 

Captain  Robertson  was  a  heavily-built,  sun- 
burnt man  of  about  forty,  with  a  dun-coloured 
drooping  moustache,  and  an  expression  best 
described  in  his  own  Scotch  idiom,  as  "gey  dour- 
looking."  His  brown  corduroy  tunic,  decorated 
with  several  faded  medal-ribbons,  was  shabby 
and  half  unbuttoned.  His  irregular  features 
had  a  bleak  aspect  of  their  own,  and  the  glance 
of  his  small  bloodshot  eyes  was  sharp  and  in- 
quisitive. A  suggestion  of  dissipation  in  his 
look — borne  out  by  the  dull  red  of  his  blunt  nose, 
and  the  congested  purple  veins  running  into 
blotches  under  the  tan  of  his  cheeks,  contrasted 
somewhat  oddly  with  his  vigilant,  soldier-like 
bearing.  An  observer  with  even  a  slight  knowl- 
edge of  the  irregular  military  corps  of  South 
Africa  in  those  days,  would  have  had  little  dif- 
ficulty in  recognising  him  as  a  "ranker,"  pro- 
moted to  the  command  of  his  company  not  so 
much  for  good  character,  as  for  sheer  efficiency 
and  experience. 

As  he  wrote,  he  constantly  pulled  and  twisted 
his  big  red  left  ear  in  the  effort  of  composition, 
while  at  intervals  his  little,  colourless  eyes  ran 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  23 

hither  and  thither  over  the  flickering  contours 
of  the  veld.  Suddenly  he  looked  round. 

The  orderly-room  sergeant  had  stepped  from 
behind  the  tent  and,  saluting,  put  a  roll  of  pa- 
pers on  the  table.  "Week's  payroll,  sir. 
They've  just  challenged  a  civilian  coming  into 
camp.  Says  he's  Bishop  Raymond,  sir." 

"D'ye  mean  Trekkin'  Moses?"  The  captain 
looked  up  with  a  frown. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  does  he  want?" 

"Wants  to  see  the  major,  sir.  I  told  him  he 
was  off  on  duty.  He  said  he'd  see  you." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"At  the  mess-tent,  sir,  talking  to  Mr.  Fos- 
ter." 

Captain  Robertson  went  back  brusquely  to 
his  writing.  "I'll  be  there  in  a  minute." 

"Yes,  sir."  The  sergeant  saluted  and  turned 
to  go.  "Here's  the  Bishop  coming,  sir,"  he 
added. 

Robertson  growled,  threw  down  his  pen,  put 
on  his  forage-cap,  and,  rising  heavily,  stepped 
into  the  sunshine  to  greet  the  newcomer.  "Mor- 
nin',  Bishop,"  he  said,  raising  his  hand  to  his 
cap  as  the  other  approached. 

"Good-morning,  Captain  Robertson."     The 


24>  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

bishop  stepped  forward  and  the  two  men  shook 
hands. 

The  Right  Reverend  St.  John  Raymond, 
[Missionary  Bishop  of  Amatongaland,  known 
throughout  the  Protectorate  as  "Trekking  Mo- 
ses" on  account  of  his  tireless  journeyings  up 
and  down  his  vast  diocese,  was  a  tall,  bearded 
man  with  a  slight  stoop.  He  was  perhaps  fifty 
years  old,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  grey  in  his 
rather  long,  dark  hair.  His  features  were  prom- 
inent and  well-shaped,  and  the  sun-blackened 
face  and  loosely-built  figure,  although  thin  al- 
most to  emaciation,  had  an  air  of  unusual  ac- 
tivity and  endurance.  His  hazel  eyes  were  deep- 
ly set,  and  their  lids  were  wrinkled  like  a  sailor's 
with  much  peering  over  great  distances.  When 
in  repose  his  expression,  although  kindly,  was 
grave  and,  in  the  society  of  white  men,  some- 
what reserved;  but  in  conversation  his  glance 
was  unexpectedly  ardent  and  keen,  and  the 
mouth,  under  the  brown  moustache  and  beard, 
revealed  a  temperament  both  emotional  and  im- 
perious. He  wore  a  broad-brimmed  slouch  hat, 
a  shabby  dark-grey  Norfolk  jacket,  and  a  grey 
flannel  shirt,  carelessly  fastened  at  the  neck  with 
a  black  tie.  His  old  khaki  riding  breeches  were 
well  cut,  for  in  his  unregenerate  days  he  had 
been  a  well-known  race-rider,  and  his  putties 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  25 

were  neatly  twisted  over  his  heavy  boots,  but  in 
other  respects  he  was  not  to  be  distinguished, 
at  a  cursory  glance,  from  an  up-country  trader. 
He  was  covered  with  dust  and  evidently  tired. 

Captain  Robertson  walked  behind  the  table 
and,  pointing  to  a  canvas  folding  chair  at  his 
elbow,  said,  "Sit  down,  Bishop.  Will  ye  have 
a  drink?" 

The  other,  bending  slightly  to  avoid  the  roof 
of  the  awning,  stepped  into  the  shade.  "No, 
thanks,"  he  replied,  placing  his  hat  and  sjam- 
bok on  the  table  and  wiping  his  brow  with  a 
large,  coloured  handkerchief.  "I  had  some 
tonic- water  at  the  mess." 

"Have  some  more;  have  a  drop  of  gin  in  it. 
Tonic's  a  wheesh  drink  by  itself." 

"No,  thanks,"  repeated  the  bishop. 

"Well,"  said  Robertson  sourly,  "ye  can  watch 
me  then.  Slingsby!" 

The  orderly-room  sergeant  appeared  from 
within  the  tent.  "Yes,  sir?" 

"Tell  Smith,"  said  the  captain  laconically. 

"Yes,  sir."  The  sergeant  re-entered  the  tent 
and,  after  putting  away  some  papers  on  his  desk, 
disappeared  through  an  opening  on  the  far  side. 

Captain  Robertson  forced  his  chair  farther 
back  from  the  table,  and,  crossing  his  legs,  took 
a  flat  tin  of  Virginian  cigarettes  out  of  the 


26  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

breast-pocket  of  his  tunic,  lit  one,  and,  after  in- 
haling and  blowing  out  a  cloud  of  grey  smoke, 
fixed  his  small  hard  eyes  on  his  companion. 

The  two  men  were  old  acquaintances  and  old 
foes.  Both  had  made  the  veld  their  home,  and 
neither  of  them  would  have  found  it  easy  to 
name  a  man  of  their  acquaintance  who  knew 
more  of  life  up  country  than  the  other.  They 
were  both  aware  of  this  and  were,  in  conse- 
quence, not  without  a  certain  respect  for  each 
other;  but  beyond  the  mutual  understanding 
and  experience  of  that  trackless  expanse  on 
which  their  widely  diverse  duties  lay,  they  had 
nothing  in  common  and  much  at  issue. 

St.  John  Raymond  was  an  aristocrat,  a  high- 
churchman,  a  profoundly  religious  ascetic,  who 
would  have  given  his  life  unhesitatingly  to  save 
either  the  body  or  the  soul  of  the  least  of  his 
black  flock.  James  Robertson  was  a  radical- 
hearted  Scotchman  of  the  lower-middle  class, 
half  pagan,  but  by  heredity  viciously  contemp- 
tuous of  prelacy  in  any  aspect ;  a  heavy  though 
"canny"  drinker,  and  a  conscientious  hater  of 
niggers.  The  worst  characteristics  of  the  bishop 
were  his  somewhat  frigid  social  attitude  towards 
the  white  men  of  his  diocese,  and  a  lack  of  tact 
in  his  dealings  with  them.  The  best  thing  in 
the  police-officer,  and  the  only  one  that  ap- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  27 

preached  an  ideal,  was  his  imperial  sense  of  the 
brotherhood  of  all  Britons,  bad  or  good,  in  a 
black  land. 

Although  their  acquaintance  extended  over 
many  years,  the  two  men  met  comparatively  sel- 
dom, and  when,  once  or  twice  in  a  twelvemonth, 
they  did  cross  each  other's  path,  their  talks  were 
usually  friendly  enough — always  provided  that 
the  vexed  question  of  "native  affairs"  did  not 
crop  up.  That  was  the  rock  on  which  they  split, 
and  it  is  only  fair  to  the  bishop  to  say  that  it 
was  due  more  to  him  than  to  the  policeman  that 
they  generally  managed  to  steer  clear  of  it. 
Not  only  was  Captain  Robertson,  like  many  of 
his  race,  of  an  argumentative  bent,  but  in  this 
matter  of  the  natives  he  felt  himself  to  be  in  an 
impregnable  position.  His  sense  of  duty, 
which,  to  do  him  justice,  was  strongly  developed, 
told  him  that  he  was  there  to  keep  order  among 
the  tribes  and  thus  enable  the  civil  Government 
to  open  up  and  develop  the  country.  This  was 
difficult  and  sometimes  perilous  work,  and,  feel- 
ing himself  as  he  did  when  engaged  in  it,  to 
be  on  the  side  of  the  angels,  he  found  it  irri- 
tating and  incomprehensible  that  any  white 
man  should  fail  to  see  eye  to  eye  with  him  and 
with  his  superiors.  In  his  view,  the  blacks  were 
a  lazy,  unruly  crowd  who,  since  they  had  been 


28  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

prohibited  from  fighting  amongst  themselves, 
and  at  the  same  time  had  been  doctored  and 
pampered  by  the  Government,  were  multiplying 
dangerously  and  becoming  more  idle  and  trucu- 
lent every  day.  The  ethics  of  the  question 
troubled  him  not  at  all,  and  its  religious  aspect 
only  excited  his  suspicion  and  contempt.  To 
him  there  was  but  one  ideal  in  the  matter:  the 
supremacy  of  British  power  in  the  land,  and, 
consequently,  the  dragooning  of  the  country 
into  a  peace  and  security  in  which  white  men 
could  trade  and  settle.  In  so  far  as  the  authori- 
ties with  a  strong  arm  worked  for  that  end,  he 
was  satisfied,  but  the  sore  point  was  that  too 
often  the  Government  stayed  its  hand,  and  for 
this  weakness  he  blamed  the  influence  of  the  mis- 
sionaries— and  not  without  reason.  Whether  it 
was  the  Presbyterians  at  Derby  whom  he  de- 
spised as  "buddies"  without  a  knowledge  of  the 
world,  or  Bishop  Raymond  whom  he  suspected 
of  an  irritating  superiority  in  that  respect  and 
with  undue  influence  in  high  places,  the  mis- 
sionaries and  their  works,  one  and  all,  lay  like 
shadows  across  the  path  both  of  his  duty  and 
of  his  pleasures.  He  accused  them  of  "inter- 
ference" on  the  spot,  and  of  "tale-bearing"  at 
home,  and  he  bitterly  resented  their  more  or  less 
open  criticisms  of  the  character  and  conduct  of 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  29 

himself  and  of  many  of  his  brother  colonists. 

He  and  the  bishop  had  not  met  since  the  out- 
break of  hostilities  nearly  a  month  previously, 
and  the  deep-seated  antagonism  between  the 
two  men,  which  usually  lay  dormant  because 
of  a  certain  liking  they  had  for  each  other,  was 
roused  by  recent  events.  Some  unexpected  re- 
verses on  the  British  side,  although  not  actually 
serious  from  a  military  point  of  view,  had  been 
made  terrible  by  the  savagery  of  the  Amatonga 
to  the  wounded  who  fell  into  their  hands,  and  a 
series  of  reprisals  had  followed,  the  conduct  of 
which  had  drawn  an  indignant  and  not  over- wise 
letter  of  protest  from  Bishop  Raymond,  ad- 
dressed both  to  the  authorities  on  the  spot  and 
to  the  High  Commissioner. 

With  this  incident  in  his  mind,  Captain  Rob- 
ertson's face,  as  he  stared  at  his  companion  over 
the  end  of  the  table,  wore  a  dour  expression. 

"Ye'll  have  come  for  news  of  the  war,  I  sup- 
pose?" he  said. 

The  bishop  eyed  him  coldly.  "No,  I  have 
not,"  he  rejoined.  "I  hear  enough,  God  knows, 
of  the  'war'  as  you  call  it." 

"And  what  would  you  call  it,  Bishop  ?  Right- 
eous retribution?" 

"Well,  sir,"  replied  the  other  grimly,  "when 
T  hear  of  Slade  being  cut  up  at  Derby,  and  Pil- 


30  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

kington  at  Fowie,  and  of  Graham  forced  back 
on  his  camp,  I  confess  I  am  inclined  to  think 
sometimes  that  the  Lord  is  fighting  against  the 
oppressors !" 

Captain  Robertson's  face  crimsoned  and  he 
thrust  out  an  angry  arm.  "Have  away  wi'  ye, 
man!  Ye've  no  call  to  come  and  talk  like  that 
in  this  camp.  What'n  damned " 

Bishop  Raymond  made  a  warning  gesture 
towards  the  mess-room  orderly  who  was  ap- 
proaching with  a  tray.  On  reaching  the  table, 
the  man  put  down  a  glass  by  the  missionary  and 
was  about  to  pour  some  whisky  into  it. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  the  latter,  waving  him 
away. 

"Leave  it  down!"  said  Robertson  roughly. 

The  orderly  placed  the  whisky  on  the  table 
and,  taking  a  bottle  of  soda-water  from  the 
tray,  turned  again  to  Bishop  Raymond.  "Soda, 
sir?" 

"No,  thanks." 

"Get  out!"  said  the  captain.  "Here,  take 
the  soda!" 

The  orderly,  after  putting  the  soda-water  bot- 
tle and  the  bishop's  tumbler  on  the  tray, 
tramped  off,  while  Robertson,  bending  forward, 
poured  out  a  stiff  glass  of  whisky,  and,  adding 
a  little  plain  water,  drank  it  down. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  31 

Bishop  Raymond  waited  until  his  companion 
had  put  his  glass  back  on  the  table  and  wiped 
his  moustache.  Then  he  said  quietly:  "I  beg 
your  pardon,  Captain  Robertson.  I  said  more 
than  I  intended " 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it!"  interjected  the  other. 

"I  repeat  that  I  am  sorry,"  continued  the 
bishop  stiffly.  "I  was  foolish  to  respond  as  I 
did.  Suppose  we  leave  the  subject  of  hostili- 
ties alone.  We  shall  never  agree  on  that  matter, 
and  I  know  as  much  as  you,  I  expect,  of  how 
things  are  going." 

"Aye.  More  perhaps,"  said  the  policeman 
meaningly. 

"Perhaps,"  rejoined  the  bishop;  then,  bend- 
ing forward,  he  felt  in  his  breast  pocket  and 
pulled  out  a  letter.  "But  what  I  have  really 
come  about  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  war.  It 
is  a  purely  private  matter ;  and  you  may  be  able 
to  help  me  if  you'll  be  so  kind.  I  expected  to 
find  Vesey- Vivian  here,  but  I  believe  you  can 
assist  me  better.  You  know  more  of  the  men 
than  he  does." 

Captain  Robertson  was  still  ruffled.  "Thank 
ye !  Mebbe  he  knows  something  of  his  dragoon 
chiels  at  home,  but  I'm  thinkin'  I  do  know  a 
bittie  more  than  him  about  the  P.F.M.P." 

"Yes,  that  is  what  occurred,  to  me.    Do  you 


32  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

remember  anyone  in  the  regiment  called 
Brown?" 

"Stooks  o'  them!  It's  a  great  name  wi'  our 
sparkies." 

"Yes,  I  daresay."  The  bishop  paused.  "In 
fact,  this  is  rather  a  case  in  point.  It  isn't  the 
man's  real  name,  but  so  far  as  I  know  he  has 
always  gone  by  it  out  here.  He's  a  dark,  wiry 
fellow — at  least  as  I  remember  him." 

"What's  his  rank?"  demanded  the  other. 

"I  forgot — he's  a  sergeant." 

Robertson  shot  a  glance  at  his  companion  and 
whistled.  "Aye,  I  know  him,"  he  said.  "If  it's 
not  too  much  to  ask,  what  may  you  be  wantin' 
with  Sergeant  Brown?  Is  there  trouble?" 

"No — not  for  him.  Rather  the  reverse." 
Again  the  bishop  paused.  "The  fact  is,  Cap- 
tain Robertson,  the  man  is  my  cousin." 

"Aye?    Well?" 

"I  knew  him  as  a  youngster,  and  in  a  vague 
way  I  knew  he  was  out  here.  I  suppose  I  should 
have  made  enquiries,  but  we  had  not  much  in 
common,  and " 

He  stopped. 

"Well,  and  what  will  ye  be  wantin'  with  him 
now?" 

Bishop  Raymond  straightened  himself  in  his 
chair.  "Excuse  me,  Robertson,  I  asked  you  to 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  33 

be  kind  enough  to  help  me  to  find  the  man.  As 
to  what  I  wish  to  say  to  him,  isn't  that  rather 
my  affair?" 

"No,  no,  Bishop !"  The  captain  sat  back  with 
a  hostile  grin.  "No,  no!  It's  mine's!  Every 
man  to  his  own  last,  ye  know.  You've  got  yer 
niggers  to  slaver  over.  Well,  I've  my  bits  o' 
black  sheep  too.  And  I'm  thinking  Sergeant 
Brown's  one  of  them.  Mind,  I'm  no  sayin'  he 
is — I  know  naught  against  him;  but  this  way 
or  that  way,  ye'll  get  nothing  from  me,  till  I 
know  what's  waitin'  him!" 

Captain  Robertson's  use  of  his  native  dialect 
varied  with  his  mood.  At  ordinary  times  he 
spoke  English  correctly  enough,  with  a  broad 
intonation  and  the  frequent  use  of  lowland 
Scotch  words  and  expressions,  but  with  a  pro- 
nunciation that  had  been  modified  by  a  quarter 
of  a  century  in  the  colonies.  When  excited,  how- 
ever, and  especially  when  angered,  he  was  apt 
to  plunge  into  a  speech  that  hailed  straight  from 
the  shores  of  the  Forth,  and  which,  it  must  be 
said,  served  him  exceedingly  well  for  offensive 
purposes. 

The  bishop  frowned.  "You're  unnecessarily 
suspicious,  Robertson,"  he  rejoined.  "Still,  I 
think  I  understand.  Well,  look  here,  read  this." 
He  held  out  a  cablegram.  "Stay,  I'll  read  it  to 


34  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

you.  It's  from  home.  It  says :  'Daneborough, 
Cosmo,  killed — train  accident.  Find  Gerald. 
Think  Sergeant  Protectorate  Frontier  Police. 
Make  every  enquiry.  Sympathy.  Simpson.' 
Simpson  is  our  family  lawyer.  The  telegram 
means  that  my  cousin,  Lord  Daneborough,  and 
his  only  son  have  been  killed,  and  that  the  man 
you  know  as  Sergeant  Brown  is  the  heir.  That's 
why  I  want  to  find  him." 

The  other  listened  attentively.  "Aye,  I  see. 
So  he'd  be  a  lord?" 

"Yes." 

" What  'n  sort  of  a  lord  ?    An  earl  ?" 

"No,"  replied  the  bishop,  shortly.  "A  mar- 
quis. Do  you— 

"That'll  be  higher  than  an  earl?" 

"Yes.  Please  say  if  you  know  where  he 
is!" 

Captain  Robertson  examined  the  horny,  dis- 
coloured nail  of  his  second  finger  and  blew  the 
ash  off  his  cigarette  before  he  replied.  "Well," 
he  said  slowly,  "I'm  no'  precisely  sure.  I'm 
thinkin'  it's  a  matter  o'  opeenion,  Bishop — an- 
other o'  thae  things  that  you  and  me'll  never 
agree  about!  But  I'll  tell  ye  this.  Wherever 
he  is,  he's  either  a  good  bittie  higher  than  a 
marquis,  or  a  good  bittie  lower  than  an  earl. 
He's  dead." 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  35 

The  bishop  half  rose  from  his  chair.    "Dead!" 

"Aye.  Yon  business  ye  were  so  pleased  about 
the  now — when  Slade's  patrol  was  cut  up  at 
Derby — yon  finished  him  too." 

"Do  you  mean  he  was  with  Slade?" 

"No.  Graham  sent  him  out  with  a  recruity 
they  called  Leslie,  to  make  a  reconnaissance  in 
-the  afternoon.  Livingstone  the  scout  met  them 
before  sundown  about  seven  miles  out.  He  was 
the  last  that  saw  them  alive,  and  when  Slade 
went  out  to  look  for  them  he  got  cut  up."  The 
speaker  paused.  "I  thought  ye  knew  all  that," 
he  added  sarcastically.  "Ye  were  sayin'  the  now 
ye  knew  everything !" 

"I  knew  of  the  fatality,"  rejoined  the  bishop, 
gravely.  "I  did  not  know  the  men's  names." 

The  captain  drummed  on  the  table.  "Well, 
there  ye  are." 

Bishop  Raymond  looked  out  over  the  blinding 
veld.  "So  Gerald's  dead  too,"  he  said. 

"Let's  hope  so !  They  may  have  got  him  alive 
— though  from  what  I  know  of  Gerald  Brown 
it's  no'  likely — but  that's  ten  days  ago,  and  even 
if  they  did — well,"  the  policeman  sneered,  "you 
know  better  nor  me  how  long  yer  black  puggies 
would  take  to  the  killing  of  him!" 

"Poor  fellow,"  murmured  the  bishop.  "Poor 
fellow!" 


36  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Captain  Robertson  fingered  a  bundle  of 
papers  on  the  table.  "Aye.  I'm  sorry  too.  I 
liked  Brown.  I  was  sergeant  at  Warren's  Kop 
when  he  came  there  as  a  recruity  seven  years 
ago.  There's  an  end  of  him  anyway.  Who  gets 
it  now?" 

"Gets  what?" 

"Who's  the  new  lord?" 

The  bishop  rose.     "I  am/'  he  said,  shortly. 

"Aye?  Well,  it's  a  queer  world."  The  other 
got  up.  "I  was  a  bit  long  in  the  telling  of  it, 
Bishop,  but,  man — ye  just  drove  me  daft  with 
yon  about  Slade  and  Pilkington!" 

The  missionary  turned  quickly.  "I'm  sorry, 
Robertson.  I  must  apologise  for  that!  I'd  no 
right  to  speak  as  I  did.  But  this  war  is  a  tragic 
business  for  me."  He  picked  up  his  hat  and 
held  out  his  hand.  "I  must  be  off." 

"Ye'll  stay  to  lunch,  man.  Where  are  ye 
from?" 

"Blake's  Drift.  One  of  my  boys  brought  the 
cablegram  to  me  there  yesterday  morning." 

Robertson  whistled  and  stared  at  his  com- 
panion. "Man,  ye  can  travel!"  he  said.  "Blake's 
Drift  to  here  in  twenty-four  hours.  I've  never 
heard  the  like!" 

The  bishop  smiled  faintly  without  replying. 

Captain  Robertson  moved  from  behind  the 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  37 

table  and,  standing  beside  the  other,  looked  at 
him  with  a  sour  smile.  "I  suppose  ye  know  they 
call  ye  'Trekkin'  Moses'?" 

The  bishop  drew  himself  up.  "Yes,"  he  said, 
"and  I  don't  like  it!  It  is  both  blasphemous  and 
impertinent." 

The  smile  went  from  the  captain's  face. 
"Havers,  man!"  he  said  roughly,  stepping  in 
front  of  the  other.  "See  here,  Bishop,  this  is 
just  where  ye're  playing  puck  with  yerself  out 
here — and  them  that  can  judge  better  nor  me 
will  tell  ye  the  same.  Ye'll  take  anything  from 
the  niggers — ye'll  listen  to  anything  they've  to 
say — and  we  know  fine  what  their  talk's  like! 
But  a  white — a  man  of  yer  own  colour — if  he 
doesna'  talk  and  carry  on  just  as  you  think  right 
— ye've  nothing  but  yer  haw-haw,  God-damn-ye 
air  for  him.  It's  a'  buff  man !  a'  buff !  Who  set 
you  up  for  a  judge?  I  know  fine  what  ye'll  say 
— that  we  whites  are  sinnin'  against  the  light 
and  a'  that.  What'n  sort  of  a  light  had  I  in 
the  drunken  master-builder's  cottage  behind 
Leith  Walk  where  I  was  born?  Tell  me  that! 
Aye,  and  there's  others  in  the  Colony  brought 
up  worse  nor  me  that's  working  like  honest  men 
and  making  the  Empire  too,  even  if  they  do  go 
on  the  ran-dan  once  in  a  while.  Ye're  makin' 
a  great  mistake,  Bishop — a  great  mistake !  It's 


38  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

none  o'  my  business  and  feint  a  bit  care  I  what 
ye  think  o'  me  or  my  friends.  But  it's  a  peety 
for  yerself !  I've  known  ye  twenty  years  and 
it's  time  some  one  tell't  ye.  Where's  yer  tact, 
man,  forbye  anythin'  else?  Comin'  here  wi'  yon 
talk  about  Pilkington  and  Slade — to  me  that's 
one  of  Her  Majesty's  officers  too!  You  that's 
a  gentleman  and  a  Christian  should  know  better 
than  that!" 

During  this  harangue  Bishop  Raymond,  hold- 
ing himself  straighter  than  was  his  custom, 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  horizon ;  then  he  turned 
sharply  and  looked  into  the  other's  face. 
"Thank  you,  Robertson,"  he  said,  "that's 
enough!  I  see  what  you  mean,  and  perhaps 

there's  something  in  it.    But  say  no  more 

He  held  up  his  hand  peremptorily.  "Say  no 
more!  This  is  no  time  for  discussion.  Good- 
bye." 

Robertson  moved  to  his  chair.  "I'll  see  ye 
at  lunch,"  he  said,  sourly. 

Bishop  Raymond  nodded  and,  bending,  was 
about  to  step  from  under  the  awning ;  he  paused 
involuntarily  before  the  blaze  of  the  noon  out- 
side. 

"I  didn't  mean  yon  in  bad  blood,  Bishop," 
said  the  other,  suddenly. 

The  missionary  turned.     "I  think  I  under- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  39 

stand  that,  Robertson,"  he  said,  with  an  effort. 

"But  ye  think  it  was  a  liberty,  all  the  same? 
Well,  mebbe  ye're  right;  it's  none  o'  my  busi- 
ness— that's  a  fact.  Will  ye  shake  hands?" 

Bishop  Raymond's  smile  was  seen  more  often 
by  black  men  than  by  white,  which  was  perhaps 
one  of  the  reasons  why  he  was  beloved  by  his 
"people,"  as  he  called  them,  while  most  of  his 
countrymen  in  South  Africa  had,  at  best,  only 
respect  to  give  him.  His  face  lit  up  as  he 
stepped  forward  with  outstretched  hand.  "Cer- 
tainly, Robertson,"  he  said.  "And — er — I  think 
I  ought  to  say  that  there  is  an  element  of  truth 
in  your  criticism — hard  as  it  was." 

"Hoot  man!"  replied  the  policeman,  brusque- 
ly, dropping  the  other's  hand  and  picking  up 
some  papers  from  the  table.  "Think  no  more 
of  it!  I'd  no'  call  to  speak  like  yon,  and  the 
now  too,  when  ye're  fashed  about  the  war,  and 
have  had  bad  news." 

"Thank  you,  Robertson."  The  bishop  put 
his  hand  impulsively  on  his  companion's  arm. 
"That  is  good  of  you!"  He  smiled  again. 
"Some  people  would  be  congratulating  me,  you 
know!" 

"Humph,"  grunted  the  captain,  sitting  down 
and  taking  up  his  pen. 


CHAPTER    III 

BISHOP  RAYMOND  strolled  from  under  the 
awning,  and,  pulling-  down  the  broad  brim  of 
his  hat  to  shade  his  eyes,  stared  idly  towards  the 
northern  horizon.  The  camp  stood  on  high 
ground,  and  the  veld  seemed  to  slant  up  all 
round  as  though  the  kopje  on  which  the  tents 
were  pitched  were  the  central  boss  of  some  im- 
mense, shallow,  earthen  dish,  raised  in  the  void 
to  catch  the  overwhelming  downpour  of  the  sun- 
light. 

Suddenly  the  missionary  halted  and  fixed  his 
gaze  on  a  point  in  the  middle  distance;  whip- 
ping his  hands  from  behind  his  back,  he  curved 
them  over  his  eyes,  and  peered  steadily  ahead 
for  some  moments. 

"Have  you  your  glasses,  Robertson?"  he 
asked. 

"Aye."  The  captain  glanced  up  from  his 
writing.  "D'ye  want  them?" 

"Yes.    Come  here." 

Captain  Robertson  rose  and,  taking  his  field- 
glasses  from  a  hook  on  the  tent-pole  behind  him, 
stepped  beside  the  bishop. 

40 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  41 

"What  do  you  make  of  that,"  said  the  latter, 
pointing-  without  turning  his  head. 

The  policeman,  slipping  the  glasses  from  their 
battered  case,  glanced  along  his  companion's 
arm.  "That's  queer!"  he  said.  "Wait  a  min- 
ute!" He  raised  the  instrument  to  his  eyes: 
"Hullo!  There's  something  wrong  here, 
Bishop!  It's  a  man  carrying  another — they're 
in  uniform  too — at  least  I  think  so.  Look!" 
Thrusting  the  glasses  into  the  bishop's  hand,  he 
turned,  "Slingsby!"  he  shouted. 

The  orderly-sergeant,  who,  during  the  con- 
versation between  his  superior  and  Bishop  Ray- 
mond, had  retreated  to  the  guard  tent  near  by, 
appeared  at  the  opening,  buttoning  his  tunic. 

"Don't  come!"  shouted  the  captain.  "My 
compliments  to  Mr.  Foster  and  tell  him  to  come 
here  sharp!" 

"Yessir,"  bawled  the  sergeant,  starting  off 
at  a  heavy  trot. 

"What  d'ye  make  of  them?"  Robertson  held 
out  his  hand  for  the  glasses. 

"The  top  man  is  wounded,  I  think,"  said  the 
Bishop,  with  a  final  stare  through  the  lenses; 
again  shielding  his  eyes  with  his  hands  he  peered 
slowly  to  and  fro  over  the  veld.  "They  seem 
to  be  alone,"  he  remarked  at  length. 

There  was  a  sound  of  hurried  steps.    Lieu- 


42  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

tenant  Foster,  a  smart-looking,  sun-burned, 
young  man  ran  from  behind  the  guard  tent  and, 
with  a  perfunctory  salute  to  the  bishop  as  he 
hopped  over  the  awning  ropes,  pulled  up  in 
front  of  Captain  Robertson  and  stood  to  at- 
tention. 

"Yes,  sir?" 

"Send  a  sergeant  and  four  men  to  meet  those 
two  fellows,"  ordered  the  latter,  without  re- 
moving his  eyes  from  the  field-glasses.  Point- 
ing with  one  hand,  he  thrust  the  instrument  into 
the  lieutenant's  grasp.  "D'you  see?"  The 
young  man  gazed  through  the  lenses  and 
nodded.  "Tell  the  sergeant  to  send  one  of  the 
men  straight  back  and  report  who  those  fel- 
IOWTS  are,"  continued  the  captain,  "and  to  look 
sharp — one  of  them's  wounded!  Fall  in  A  and 
D  troops,  and  have  the  patrols  ready.  Send  out 
pickets  to  Rot  Kopje  and  Susannah,  and  tell 
them  to  keep  a  look  out  all  round  and  report 
at  once  if  they  see  anything.  Go  on !" 

Foster  saluted  and  disappeared  at  a  run 
among  the  tents.  Immediately,  with  a  blowing 
of  whistles  and  shouting  of  orders  the  encamp- 
ment burst  into  activity ;  the  tent-openings  dis- 
gorged troopers  buttoning  their  tunics  and 
slipping  bandoliers  over  their  heads;  the  long 
lines  of  horses,  which  a  moment  before  had  been 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  43 

silent,  save  for  the  ceaseless  drone  of  the  flies, 
woke  up  with  a  great  rattle  of  headstalls  and 
hoofs. 

"I  don't  like  this,  Bishop!"  Captain  Robert- 
son was  at  his  glasses  again.  "There's  been  a 
scrap  somewhere.  But  where,  and  which  of  our 
lads  have  been  in  it,  beats  me !  Slingsby  I" 

"Yes,  sir!"  The  orderly-sergeant,  in  the  act 
of  re-winding  one  of  his  putties,  darted  out  of 
the  guard  tent. 

"Tell  the  ambulance-orderly  to  get  his  things 
ready!  A  wounded  man  is  coming  in." 

"I'll  go  out  with  them,"  exclaimed  Bishop 
Raymond,  "I'm  a  bit  of  a  doctor." 

Robertson  raised  a  detaining  hand.  "I'd 
rather  you  gave  the  ambulance-orderly  a  help — 
he's  a  fool.  Send  the  ambulance-orderly  here !" 
he  shouted  after  the  retreating  sergeant. 

For  some  moments  the  two  men  continued  to 
stare  over  the  veld.  "There  they  go!"  said  the 
bishop.  A  little  cavalcade  of  five  men  moved 
at  a  trot  out  of  the  last  line  of  tents,  broke  into 
a  canter,  then  into  a  gallop,  and  swept  up  and 
down  the  rolling  ground  towards  the  north. 

"They'll  be  there  in  no  time,"  responded  the 
other,  peering  through  his  binoculars.  "Them 
two's  seen  them — they've  sat  down — near  tum- 
bled on  their  heads  both  of  them!  There  they 


44  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

are — they're  there!  They're  gettin'  them  up. 
Aye — the  little  man's  wounded  in  the  leg — the 
other  one's  fainted  I'm  thinkin'! — they've  got 
him  on  though.  They'll  be  here  in  a  jiffy."  He 
handed  the  glasses  to  the  bishop,  and  turned 
to  the  ambulance-orderly,  who  had  run  up  while 
he  was  speaking.  "A  wounded  man's  coming 
in.  Have  everything  ready.  Put  yourself 
under  Bishop  Raymond's  orders.  D'ye  under- 
stand?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  orderly,  saluting. 

"Thank  ye,  Bishop."  Robertson  held  out  his 
hand  for  the  glasses  and  with  a  curt  nod,  re- 
turned to  his  watching.  The  missionary,  pick- 
ing up  his  sjambok,  marched  off  with  long 
strides  in  the  direction  of  the  hospital  tent,  fol- 
lowed by  the  orderly. 

The  return  of  the  rescue  party  was  slow. 
Following  the  lie  of  the  land  the  little  group 
of  horses  and  men  took  a  slight  sweep  west- 
ward, and  then  headed  towards  the  end  of  the 
camp  occupied  by  the  orderly-tent.  Its  progress 
was  watched  eagerly,  and  a  small  crowd  of  non- 
commissioned officers  and  men  gathered  by  the 
farthest-out  tents,  taking  care,  however,  to  avoid 
the  vicinity  of  the  orderly-room  awning,  be- 
neath which  Captain  Robertson  moved  slowly 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  45 

from  point  to  point,  examining  the  veld  method- 
ically through  his  field-glasses. 

When  some  three  hundred  yards  from  the 
camp  the  sergeant  in  command  of  the  party 
spurred  his  horse  and,  cantering  over  the  rising 
ground,  pulled  up  beside  the  officer.  The  latter 
lowered  his  glasses  and  swung  round.  "Well?" 

The  sergeant  saluted.  "They  both  fainted 
clean  off  when  we  got  to  them,  sir,"  he  said, 
"so  I  couldn't  find  out  anything.  I  don't  know 
either  of  them.  The  wounded  man's  a  sergeant. 
He  must  be  from  the  2nd  Battalion." 

"Did  ye  give  them  some  brandy?" 

"Yes,  sir.  One  of  them — the  chap  who  was 
carrying  the  other — looks  pretty  bad.  We'd 
better  get  him  off  as  soon  as  we  can,  sir." 

"Get  him  to  the  hospital-tent." 

"I  don't  know  if  he'll  last  as  long,  sir — he 
looked  as  if  he  might  peg  out  any  moment.  I 
expect  it's  the  sun — if  we  got  him  into  the 
shade " 

"Bring  him  here,"  ordered  the  captain, 
brusquely.  "Hi!"  he  shouted,  "Here!" 

The  little  cavalcade  had  topped  the  brow  of 
the  kopje  and  was  moving  slowly  towards  the 
tents;  the  horses,  as  they  stumbled  among  the 
stones,  kicking  up  clouds  of  grey  dust  from 
the  dry,  trampled  ground.  Two  of  the  party 


46  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

were  on  foot,  marching  by  their  chargers'  heads 
and  steadying  the  rescued  men  in  the  saddles. 
On  the  offside  of  the  horses  rode  the  other  troop- 
ers, ready  to  lend  a  hand  in  preventing  the  ap- 
parently lifeless  bodies  from  toppling  to  the 
ground. 

At  Captain  Robertson's  shout  the  group 
changed  its  direction,  and  bore  down  on  the  or- 
derly-tent. The  sergeant  rode  forward  and 
halted  it  a  few  feet  away  from  the  awning. 
"Get  'em  under  the  'fly,'  "  he  ordered.  "Steady 
there — you,  Lane,  get  your  man  off  first. 
Steady — he's  a  bit  of  a  weight !  That's  right — 
here — give  me  his  legs — now  then " 

"Into  the  chair,"  ordered  the  captain,  point- 
ing. The  sergeant  and  the  trooper,  staggering 
under  the  weight,  lifted  their  burden  into  the 
canvas  chair  beside  the  table.  Instantly  the 
man's  head  fell  forward  between  his  knees. 

"Leave  him  alone!"  Captain  Robertson 
shouldered  the  others  aside  and  put  his  hand  on 
the  unconscious  man's  forehead.  "Where's  the 
brandy?  It's  no'  the  sun — he's  just  fainted. 
Aye — that's  better,"  he  added,  dashing  some 
water  in  the  other's  face.  "Now  then,  lay  him 
back — lower  the  chair — stick  a  haversack  under 
his  head.  There.  Now  for  the  other  one.  Tell 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  47 

the  Bishop  to  hurry  with  his  things !"  he  added, 
turning  to  a  trooper. 

The  wounded  sergeant  was  then  lifted  gently 
from  his  horse,  and  Robertson,  swinging  the  of- 
fice-table into  the  tent  behind,  ordered  the  bear- 
ers to  lay  him  on  the  ground,  and  place  a  roll 
of  blanket  under  his  head.  In  the  operation  the 
man's  hat,  which  had  been  fixed  on  his  brow 
by  his  leather  chin-strap,  slipped  off. 

Captain  Robertson  stepped  forward  quickly 
and  stared  down  at  the  gaunt  face,  foul  with 
sweat  and  dust,  and  half  covered  by  a  bristling 
growth  of  black  hair.  Then  he  swung  round 
and  gazed  at  the  man's  comrade.  His  keen  lit- 
tle eyes  ran  up  and  down  the  unconscious  figure 
in  the  chair.  The  rescued  trooper's  boots  were 
gone,  and  his  feet  were  wrapped  in  the  rags  of 
putties  tied  up  with  the  remnants  of  boot-laces 
and  bits  of  tape;  bruised  and  cut  flesh  showed 
between  the  folds  and  through  the  rents  of  the 
stuff,  which  was  stained  and  caked  with  con- 
gealed blood  and  dust.  His  shins  were  bare — 
burnt  raw  by  the  sun  and  shockingly  lacerated. 
His  breeches  were  torn  to  shreds,  and  the  tunic 
was  pulled  out  of  all  shape,  stiff  with  dirt  and 
sweat,  and  discoloured  down  the  front  by  long 
brown  streaks.  Robertson  stooped  and  peered 
into  the  face.  In  spite  of  the  close  patches  of 


48  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

hair,  filthy  with  perspiration,  that  grew  on  the 
chin  and  cheeks — in  spite  of  the  emaciation  and 
unmistakable  traces  of  some  long-drawn-out, 
crushing  strain,  which  contracted  the  forehead 
and  mouth,  the  face  was  obviously  that  of  a 
youth.  The  captain  gave  a  grunt  of  amazed 
comprehension. 

"Aye,"  he  muttered,  "it's  them!" 

For  a  moment  he  tugged  his  drooping  mous- 
tache; then  he  turned  to  the  sergeant  standing 
beside  him.  "Tell  Mr.  Foster  to  dismiss  the 
men,  and  call  in  the  pickets,  and  come  here. 
Hurry  up!" 

"Yes  sir,"  said  the  man,  setting  off  at  a  run. 

"And  see  if  the  Bishop's  coming  with  his 
things!"  shouted  the  captain. 

As  he  spoke,  Bishop  Raymond  appeared  from 
among  the  tents,  carrying  a  glass  and  some  med- 
icine bottles,  and  followed  by  the  ambulance- 
orderly  with  an  armful  of  bandages  and  wash- 
ing materials,  and  by  two  troopers  bearing 
stretchers. 

"Sorry  to  be  so  long,  Robertson,"  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  stepped  under  the  awning.  "I 
thought  they  were  coming  straight  to  the  hos- 
pital-tent. I'd  some  difficulty  in  finding  what 
I  wanted,  but  I  think  this  will  do.  Now 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  49 

then "  He  turned  towards  the  wounded  ser- 
geant. 

"The  other's  worst,"  observed  Robertson, 
pointing  to  the  chair. 

Bishop  Raymond,  motioning  to  the  orderly 
to  follow,  hurried  over  and,  after  feeling  the 
trooper's  pulse,  opened  his  tunic  and  thrust  an 
ear  to  his  chest.  He  listened  carefully.  "You've 
given  him  brandy?"  he  enquired,  glancing  up. 

Captain  Robertson  nodded.  "Two  goes  of 
it." 

The  bishop  withdrew  his  head  from  the  un- 
conscious youth's  chest,  and,  beckoning  to  the 
orderly  to  hand  him  a  bottle  and  a  glass,  poured 
out  some  drops  and  added  a  little  water. 

"Is  he  bad?"  asked  the  captain. 

"I'm  not  sure,"  responded  the  missionary. 
"I'm  scarcely  enough  of  a  doctor  for  this  sort 
of  thing.  I  don't  think  there's  anything  wrong 
with  the  heart,  but — well — it's  scarcely  work- 
ing." He  raised  the  trooper's  head  and,  forcing 
his  teeth  apart,  poured  some  of  the  liquid  into 
his  mouth.  The  patient  choked  and  recoiled; 
Bishop  Raymond  continued  his  efforts,  and, 
with  another  gulp  or  two  and  a  groan,  the  suf- 
ferer moved  an  arm  and  raised  his  lids — his  eyes, 
in  spite  of  the  distress  of  their  glance,  show- 


50  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

ing  startlingly  blue  and  clear  against  the  grime 
of  his  face. 

"That's  right!"  The  bishop  gently  lowered 
his  patient's  head  on  to  the  haversack.  "Don't 
talk.  "He'll  do,"  he  continued  in  a  low  tone, 
turning  to  Robertson,  "he's  simply  dead  beat. 
What  a  frightful  state  he's  in!" 

"What's  yon  blood?"  demanded  the  other, 
pointing  to  the  brown  streaks  on  the  tunic.  "Is 
he  hurt?" 

The  Bishop  glanced  at  the  stains.  "Not  that 
I  saw."  Opening  the  youth's  shirt  again,  he 
examined  his  body.  "No.  His  feet  and  legs 
are  bad  enough,  in  all  conscience,  but  there's 
nothing  here.  Ah!"  he  continued,  "it  must  be 
from  the  other  man's  wound.  He  was  carrying 
him  at  the  end,  you  know." 

"It's  queer.  Them's  old  stains,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, briefly.  "Never  mind — we'll  hear  soon." 

Bishop  Raymond,  directing  the  orderly  to  lay 
a  blanket  and  a  couple  of  pillows  on  the  ground 
by  the  end  of  the  awning,  ordered  the  sergeant 
and  a  trooper  to  lift  the  sick  man  on  to  it. 
"Keep  his  head  away  from  the  light.  He'll 
get  all  the  breeze  there  is,  here:  we  must  keep 
him  quiet  for  a  few  minutes."  Again  he  placed 
his  ear  to  the  sufferer's  chest.  "That's  better; 
he'll  be  all  right,  I  think.  Give  him  this  when 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  51 

he  comes  to  again."  Without  rising  from  his 
knees,  he  mixed  some  medicine  from  another 
bottle  and  handed  the  glass  to  the  orderly. 
"Will  you  send  someone  for  the  soup  I  or- 
dered?" he  asked.  "The  others  can  go  for  the 
present." 

"You,  Wilson" — Captain  Robertson  turned 
to  one  of  the  troopers,  "hurry  the  cook  up.  The 
rest  of  you  clear  out;  wait  over  there,"  he  added, 
pointing  towards  the  guard  tent. 

"Now  for  the  other  one " 

The  bishop  climbed  to  his  feet. 

Captain  Robertson  laid  a  hand  on  his  com- 
panion's sleeve.  "Bishop,"  he  said,  with  a  grim 
smile,  "ye're  speeritual  title  will  have  to  do  you 
after  all!" 

"Hey?" 

"Yon's  him!"  The  speaker  pointed  over  to 
the  wounded  sergeant.  "Yon's  our  man!" 

Bishop  Raymond  started  and  glanced  across 
the  awning.  "Do  you  mean  Gerald?"  he  asked 
sharply. 

"Aye.  Yer  cousin,  Sergeant  Gerald  Brown, 
no  less !  How  he's  got  here  beats  me.  But  there 
he  is!" 

The  bishop  made  no  response.  Picking  up 
a  basin  and  a  jug  of  warm  water,  he  hurried 
across  the  awning  and  kneeled  down  by  the 


52  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

wounded  man.  "Send  for  more  water  and 
towels,"  he  called,  "and  I  want  another  man 
to  help  me  here." 

Robertson  shouted  some  orders  to  the  troop- 
ers by  the  guard-tent  and  then  followed  the 
missionary.  "I'll  give  ye  a  hand,"  he  said,  roll- 
ing up  his  sleeves. 

"He's  conscious,"  whispered  the  bishop, 
"just  dead  beat.  Don't  speak  to  him. 
Now —  "  he  proceeded  to  undo  the  puttie  that 
was  wound  round  the  sufferer's  leg.  It  was  a 
long  business,  as  both  the  cloth  and  the  handker- 
chief underneath  were  stuck  round  the  knee  with 
a  sort  of  mortar  of  dust  and  blood.  "That  has 
saved  him,"  remarked  the  bishop,  as  he  soaked 
the  limb  with  warm  water  and  carefully  re- 
moved the  folds.  After  a  brief  examination  he 
proceeded  to  put  on  a  temporary  bandage. 
"The  wound  itself  isn't  serious,"  he  said,  "but 
he's  lost  a  lot  of  blood.  That'll  do  till  we  get 
him  to  the  hospital  tent." 

"Could  he  have  walked  with  yon?"  asked  the 
captain. 

"Impossible,"  replied  the  bishop,  without 
looking  up. 

Captain  Robertson  whistled  to  himself  again 
and  glanced  curiously  up  and  down  the  pros- 
trate figure.  The  wounded  sergeant's  face 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  53 

bore  ample  evidence  of  suffering;  apart  from 
its  filth  and  emaciation  it  showed  a  startling  pal- 
lor under  its  dark  sunburn.  But,  the  captain 
noted,  this  survivor  was  in  an  infinitely  less  woe- 
begone and  disordered  state  than  the  other.  His 
tunic  and  breeches,  though  torn  in  places  and 
covered  with  dust,  had  suffered  comparatively 
little,  and  his  legs  and  feet  showed  but  few 
signs  of  stress. 

Suddenly  the  man  jerked  his  wounded  limb 
and  opened  his  eyes.  The  bishop  slipped  an 
arm  round  his  neck  and  raised  him  slightly. 

"Hullo,  Brown!"  said  the  captain. 

"Hullo,"  responded  the  wounded  man  weak- 
ly. "Where  ami?" 

"In  the  arms  of  the  Church,  my  mannie," 
replied  Robertson  jocosely,  "but  I'll  protect 
ye!  Ye're  at  Macteali,  man.  Ye're  all  right!" 

Bishop  Raymond  held  a  glass  to  the  ser- 
geant's cracked  lips.  "Drink  this,"  he  ordered. 
The  man  swallowed  the  dose;  his  eyes  cleared 
at  once,  and  sitting  up  on  his  elbow  he  blinked 
around  him. 

"Where's  Leslie?"  he  asked. 

"He's  here,  my  man,"  said  the  bishop,  in- 
serting a  roll  of  blanket  under  the  other's  back. 
"He's  doing  well." 


54  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Sergeant  Brown  sank  back.  "We've  had  a 
hellish  time,"  he  said,  half  closing  his  eyes. 

"Aye,"  remarked  Robertson  grimly,  "I  can 
see  that.  Ye'll  have  to  tell  us  about  it  some 
time." 

Bishop  Raymond  looked  up  from  unlacing 
his  patient's  boots.  "Not  now!"  he  said. 

"I'm  all  right,  sir,"  said  the  sergeant  weakly. 
"There's  not  much  to  tell — we've  come  from 
Derby." 

"Aye.  I  guessed  that;  but  how?  That's  the 
point!"  The  captain  moved  a  step  nearer. 

Brown's  lids  dropped  again.  "Leslie  carried 
me." 

The  bishop  stopped  in  the  act  of  rising  to  his 
feet.  "Carried  you!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Bishop  Raymond  shot  an  enquiring  glance 
at  Robertson,  and,  taking  the  sergeant's  wrist, 
felt  his  pulse.  "Better  not  talk  any  more,  my 
man,"  he  said. 

"Let  him  be,  Bishop,"  whispered  the  captain, 
gruffly. 

"I'm  all  right."  The  wounded  man  withdrew 
his  wrist  irritably.  "What's  to-day?" 

"The  llth— Tuesday,"  said  Robertson. 

"H'm.  Lost  count.  Thought  it  must  be  near 
the  end  of  the  week.  We  started  on  the  1st. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  55 

Ten  days!  God!  What  a  time!"  A  spasm  of 
horror  swept  over  the  man's  face. 

"Did  ye  meet  nobody?"  queried  the  captain, 
after  a  pause. 

"Not  a  soul.  We  came  by  Imbawa  and  the 
Khaba  Kraals.  We  got  mealies  and  water  to 
go  on  with,  but  everything  was  deserted.  Trav- 
elled by  night,  of  course.  We  saw  parties  dur- 
ing the  day  sometimes,  but  not  near  enough  to 
know  if  they  were  friendlies." 

"What  did  ye  do  with  yer  horses?"  demanded 
Robertson. 

"They'd  bolted  before  we  started,"  replied 
the  sergeant.  "Leslie  carried  me,  I  tell  you!" 
he  repeated. 

Captain  Robertson  stared  at  the  speaker. 
"Carried  ye  all  the  way?" 

"Every  damned  foot!" 

"Merciful  Heaven!"  cried  the  bishop. 

"Aye.  That  would  have  been  too  much  for 
me,"  said  the  captain  slowly. 

"It  was  too  much  for  him!"  The  wounded 
man's  voice  rose  weakly.  "I  was  always  cursing 
him  and  telling  him  to  leave  me  and  look  out 
for  himself.  But  he  wouldn't.  His  feet  must 
be  all  to  pieces — my  boots  were  too  small  for 
him." 

Bishop  Raymond  glanced  across  the  awning. 


56  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"They're  badly  cut,"  he  said  gravely.  "The  or- 
derly is  bathing  them." 

Sergeant  Brown  raised  his  head  as  though  to 
follow  the  other's  glance,  but  the  effort  was 
too  much  for  him,  and,  falling  back  on  his  pil- 
low, he  closed  his  eyes.  The  bishop  turned  to 
Robertson;  before  he  could  speak  the  wounded 
man's  lids  snapped  open  again.  "My  God!"  he 
cried  sharply,  "what  a  time!  My  God!  Why 
the  devil  he  didn't  go  back  at  the  start !  He  was 
an  infernal  fool — that's  what  he  was!" 

"He  saved  your  life,  anyway!"  retorted  the 
captain. 

"I  know  all  that !  He  stuck  to  me  like  a  good 
'un.  I  know  all  that.  But  he  could  have  saved 
himself  that  hell,  and  me  too,  if  he'd  done  what 
I  told  him!" 

"D'ye  mean  you  could  have  got  back  to  Der- 
by?" demanded  the  other  quickly. 

"He  could.  It  was  just  sundown  when  I 
was  stuck.  He  let  the  horses  bolt — some  fool- 
ery. I  don't  remember  about  it  now.  I  ordered 
him  back  to  report  to  Graham "  The  ser- 
geant paused  exhausted. 

"Aye?  Wait  a  bit,  Bishop!"  Robertson 
thrust  out  his  arm  peremptorily — "let  him  fin- 
ish. What  then?" 

"Nothing.     He  simply  wouldn't  budge.     I 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  57 

cursed  him  till  all  was  blue.  I  thought  I'd  got 
a  move  on  him  once,  but  just  as  he  was  mak- 
ing a  start,  we  saw  one  of  their  vedettes.  Then 
hell  itself  wouldn't  budge  him!  He  swore  he 
wouldn't  leave  me — that  he'd  carry  me — and  all 
the  rest  of  it.  I  was  pretty  well  played  out  by 
that  time,  so  I  chucked  it  and  gave  in.  I 
couldn't  make  head  or  tail  of  him.  I  can't  now. 
Half  a  dozen  times  since,  I've  tried  to  get  out 
of  him  what  he  was  after,  but  he  shut  up  like 
an  oyster.  He's  been  dashed  decent — you 
needn't  think  I'm  rounding  on  him.  I  don't 
believe  there's  another  fellow  living  who'd  have 
stuck  to  me  like  he  did.  But  he  was  a  damned 
fool,  all  the  same!  He  might  have  saved  him- 
self that  hell  and  me  too,  with  any  luck,  if  he'd 
done  what  I  told  him." 

Captain  Robertson's  face  darkened.  "Aye! 
And  saved  Slade  too!"  he  said  with  an  oath. 

"What's  that?"  The  sergeant  looked  up 
sharply. 

Bishop  Raymond,  stepping  between  his  pa- 
tient and  the  officer,  motioned  imperatively  to 
the  latter.  "Nothing,"  he  said.  "Are  you  ready 
to  be  moved  now?" 

"I'm  all  right,  sir,"  replied  the  sergeant,  clos- 
ing his  eyes.  "Look  after  Leslie." 

Bishop  Raymond,  with  a  warning  glance  at 


58  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Robertson,  walked  over  and,  after  exchanging 
a  few  words  with  the  orderly,  proceeded  to  at- 
tend to  his  other  patient. 

For  a  few  moments  after  his  departure,  the 
captain  held  his  peace;  then,  keeping  an  eye 
on  the  group  at  the  other  side  of  the  awning, 
he  remarked  tentatively:  "Ye  say  he's  a  recruit 
—he'll  not  know  much  about  the  veld  then?" 

The  wounded  man  opened  his  eyes  slowly. 
"Who?" 

"Leslie."  Captain  Robertson  spoke  cautious- 
ly, assuming  what  he  intended  to  be  a  reassuring 
bedside  manner.  "Yon  Leslie.  He'll  no  have 
had  much  experience  of  the  veld,  I'm 
thinkin'?" 

"He  has  now!"  said  the  other  grimly.  "He 
was  a  useless  young  devil  before — just  out  from 
home.  He  drove  me  nearly  wild  over  the  horses, 
I  remember.  No;  he  was  no  good  on  the  veld. 
I  wasn't  even  sure,  once  or  twice,  if  I  could 
trust  him  to  find  his  way  back  to  Derby — seven 
miles!  But  I  expect  that  was  rot."  The  ser- 
geant lay  back  wearily. 

"See  here,  Brown!"  exclaimed  the  officer.  "It 
strikes  me " 

"Now,  Robertson!" — Bishop  Raymond  had 
stepped  up;  he  laid  a  firm  hand  on  the  other's 
arm  and  turned  to  the  wounded  man.  "You've 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  59 

talked  enough,  my  man.  I'm  just  finishing  with 
your  friend,  and  then  we'll  move  you  both  to 
the  hospital-tent  and  you  can  sleep.  That's 
what  you  need." 

"Thanks,  sir."  The  sergeant  looked  hard  at 
the  speaker.  "I've  seen  you  before.  Can't  re- 
member where.  Was  it  out  here?" 

"No.  We've  never  met  out  here.  But  don't 
talk.  I've  some  news  for  you  which  you'll  prob- 
ably be  glad  to  hear.  But  not  now.  Come, 
Robertson !" 

The  two  men  moved  over  to  the  far  end  of 
the  awning,  where  the  bishop's  other  patient 
was  drinking  some  soup ;  as  they  approached,  he 
handed  the  cup  to  the  orderly  and  looked  up. 

"Well,"  said  Robertson.  "Are  ye  feeling 
better?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  trooper  faintly. 

"Ye've  had  a  fine  tramp!" 

"Now,  Captain  Robertson "  interrupted 

the  bishop  decisively,  "we've  talked  enough  to 
those  two  fellows.  You  must  leave  this  one  to 
rest — he  needs  it."  The  speaker  turned  towards 
the  guard-tent,  "Bring  a  stretcher  here!"  he 
shouted. 

Two  pairs  of  troopers,  each  bearing  a  can- 
vas stretcher  between  them,  moved  across  the 
sunlight.  As  they  ranged  up  beside  the  awn- 


60  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

ing,  the  orderly-sergeant  appeared  behind  them 
and  stepped  towards  Captain  Robertson. 

"Major's  back,  sir,"  he  said,  saluting. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"He's  talking  to  Mr.  Jocelyn,  sir.  Here  he 
is,  sir." 

A  tall,  finely-made  man  with  a  ruddy  com- 
plexion, prominent  blue  eyes,  and  a  blond  mous- 
tache, was  striding  towards  the  orderly-tent. 
His  uniform  was  extremely  well-cut;  neat  pig- 
skin gaiters  encased  his  legs  instead  of  putties, 
and  a  linen  collar  showed  above  his  tunic.  He 
was  accompanied  by  Foster  and  another  subal- 
tern named  Jocelyn,  a  clean-shaved,  horsey- 
looking  youth. 

Vesey- Vivian  was  a  cavalry  captain,  seconded 
for  service  with  the  Protectorate  Frontier 
Mounted  Police.  A  vague  hope  of  seeing  some 
active  service,  coupled  with  a  very  definite  wish 
to  pay  off  debts  which  had  accumulated  incon- 
veniently during  half-a-dozen  racing  and  hunt- 
ing seasons  at  home,  had  brought  him  to  Ama- 
tongaland  with  the  local  rank  of  major.  He 
was  a  fair  soldier,  an  excellent  horseman  and 
horsemaster,  and,  in  many  respects,  a  good  fel- 
low; but  somehow  he  had  not  been  altogether 
a  success  as  a  South  African  police  officer. 

"What's  all  this,  Robertson?"  he  exclaimed 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  61 

as  he  approached.  "What's  all  this?"  His  eye 
fell  on  Bishop  Raymond,  and  stepping  forward 
he  held  out  his  hand  affably.  "How  d'you  do, 
Bishop  ?  Heard  you  were  here.  You'll  stay  to 
lunch,  won't  you?  So  glad — delighted  to  see 
you.  What's  all  this,  Robertson?"  he  repeated, 
turning  abruptly  on  his  second-in-command, 
while  his  eye  ran  from  one  recumbent  figure 
under  the  awning  to  the  other. 

Perhaps  there  would  have  been  one  chance 
in  a  hundred  that  two  men  as  opposed  by  every 
incident  of  birth  and  training  as  were  Major 
Vesey- Vivian  and  Captain  Robertson,  would 
have  pulled  together  in  the  relations  in  which 
they  found  themselves  at  Macteali.  If,  for  ex- 
ample, they  had  been  able  to  respect  each  other 
for  but  a  single  quality,  as  the  captain  and  the 
bishop  did,  matters  might  have  gone  better  be- 
tween them.  But  Captain  Robertson,  at  least, 
was  economical  of  his  respect,  and  there  was 
little  enough,  even  for  the  requirements  of  mil- 
itary etiquette,  in  his  manner  as  he  saluted  his 
superior. 

"All  what,  sir?" 

"About  those  fellows?" 

"Well,  ye  can  see  them  for  yerself — all  that's 
left  o'  them.  They're  from  Derby." 


62  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Vesey- Vivian  strode  over  to  the  wounded  ser- 
geant. "What's  your  name,  my  man?" 

"Brown,  sir." 

"By  Jove!  So  you  are  the  fellow  that  was 
reported  missing.  And  is  that  the  other  one — 
what's  his  name?  Leslie,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"By  Jove!"  exclaimed  the  major.  "Extraor- 
dinary! Never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  Is  it 
true  you  walked  the  whole  way?" 

"He  did.  I  couldn't.  He  carried  me,"  re- 
plied the  sergeant. 

"Carried  you?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Carried  you  all  the  way?"  The  major's  voice 
rose. 

"Yes,  sir." 

Vesey- Vivian  whacked  his  gaiter  excitedly 
with  his  hunting  crop.  "By  Jove!"  he  cried, 
"no  one  told  me  that.  Never  heard  of  such  a 
thing  in  my  life!  Wouldn't  have  believed  it! 
On  his  back,  d'you  mean?  Carried  you  on  his 
back?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  repeated  the  sergeant. 

"Why,  it's  perfectly  magnificent!"  The  ma- 
jor strode  over  to  Leslie.  "You've  done  splen- 
didly, my  man,  splendidly!  Finest  thing  I've 
heard  of  for  ages.  No  end  of  a  score  for  the 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  63 

regiment!"    He  tapped  the  trooper's  shoulder 
with  his  crop.    "It'll  mean  the  V.C.  for  you— 
you  can  count  on  that!" 

At  these  words  a  loud  cheer  rose  from  a  dense 
circle  of  non-commissioned  officers  and  men 
that  had  gathered,  with  the  major's  arrival, 
round  the  orderly-tent.  Excitement  had  been 
rising  steadily  throughout  the  camp  during  the 
last  hour.  The  news  that  the  refugees  were 
from  Derby — that  the  two  derelicts,  picked  up 
reeling  and  swaying  under  the  blazing  sun,  had 
steered,  unprovisioned  as  they  were,  for  ten 
nights  and  days  over  a  hostile  country — this  in 
itself  had  caused  immense  speculation  and  dis- 
cussion. Then  came  the  rumour  that  they  were 
survivors  from  the  affair  of  Slade's  patrol — 
that  their  horses  had  bolted  early  in  the  flight — 
that  the  sergeant  was  seriously  wounded,  and 
that  the  trooper  had  performed  the  incredible 
feat  of  carrying  his  comrade  on  his  back  every 
yard  of  the  way.  And  now  Major  Vivian's 
loud  exclamations — serving  very  effectually  the 
purpose  of  a  Greek  chorus  to  the  sergeant's 
monosyllables — not  only  confirmed  all,  but 
completed  the  situation  in  a  manner  which,  from 
a  dramatic  point  of  view,  left  nothing  to  be  de- 
sired. At  the  sound  of  the  magic  letters,  V.C., 


64  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

the  two  subalterns  bounded  forward,  "Really, 
sir!"  they  shouted  together. 

"Rather!"  replied  the  major.  "Of  course. 
I'll  guarantee  it!" 

"Hurrah!  Good  man!"  Foster  rushed  over 
to  Leslie  and  tried  to  pat  him  on  the  back,  while 
Jocelyn  tore  off  his  hat  and,  waving  it  round 
his  head  by  the  chin-strap,  shouted:  "Three 
cheers  for  Trooper  Leslie!  Hip,  hip,  hurrah!" 

While  Major  Vivian  was  speaking,  Leslie 
had  stared  at  his  superior  officer  as  though  stu- 
pefied. At  the  mention  of  the  Victoria  Cross 
he  started  violently  and,  flushing  from  brow 
to  chin,  recoiled  against  his  pillow.  As  the  three 
deafening  cheers  went  up  he  jerked  forward 
on  his  elbow  and,  with  a  look  of  acute  appre- 
hension and  distress,  gazed  over  at  Sergeant 
Brown.  The  latter  had  also  started  up;  their 
eyes  met.  For  a  moment  the  sergeant  seemed 
about  to  speak;  then,  as  the  cheers  died  away, 
he  paused,  pulled  his  moustache  and,  without 
looking  again  at  Leslie,  lay  back  and  gazed  up 
at  the  awning.  Bishop  Raymond,  in  the  act 
of  crossing  over  to  restrain  the  major  from  talk- 
ing longer  to  his  patient,  stopped  dead  and 
glanced  at  Captain  Robertson,  who  had  sprung 
forward  with  raised  hand. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  65 

Major  Vivian  swung  round.  "Well?"  he  de- 
manded, looking  the  other  up  and  down. 

Twice  Robertson  opened  his  mouth,  and  twice 
checked  himself;  he  was  evidently  trying  to 
control  some  powerful  emotion.  "Take  care, 
man!"  he  exclaimed  harshly,  at  length,  "How 
are  ye  sure  this  is  V.C.  work?" 

Major  Vesey- Vivian  drew  himself  up.  "I 
don't  think  we  need  discuss  that  now,  Captain 
Robertson,"  he  said. 

For  a  moment  everybody  gazed  from  one  of- 
ficer to  the  other;  then  a  startling  exclamation 
came  from  across  the  awning. 

"He's  right!  He's  quite  right!  I  wouldn't 
take  it!" 

Crying  out  these  words,  Trooper  Leslie  had 
heaved  himself  up  and  was  trying  to  scramble 
to  his  feet.  "He's  right,  I  tell  you!"  he  re- 
peated, glancing  about  feverishly.  A  complete 
silence  had  fallen ;  on  every  side  he  encountered 
amazed  looks,  his  lacerated  knees  gave  way 
under  him,  he  wavered,  and  then,  with  a  sob, 
toppled  to  the  ground. 

Bishop  Raymond  and  the  ambulance-orderly 
ran  forward  and  lifted  him  back  on  the  blanket. 
The  major  followed. 

"What's  the  matter,  man?"  he  demanded, 
sharply.  "What  d'you  mean?" 


66  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

The  trooper  closed  his  eyes.  "Nothing.  I 
don't  know,"  he  muttered. 

"Not  another  word,  Vivian,  please!"  Bishop 
Raymond,  his  hand  on  the  youth's  wrist, 
spoke  over  his  shoulder.  "I'm  responsible  for 
this  fellow.  There's  been  far  too  much  of 
this!" 

Vesey- Vivian  swung  round.  "This  is  your 
fault,  Robertson!"  he  said  furiously. 

The  captain  made  no  response;  putting  his 
hands  behind  his  back  he  looked  away. 

"The  boy  doesn't  know  what  he's  saying." 
Vivian  had  turned  again  to  the  bishop.  "Let's 
get  them  off  to  the  hospital-tent." 

Bishop  Raymond  nodded,  and,  after  a  few 
words  to  the  orderly,  beckoned  to  the  stretcher- 
bearers  to  approach. 

"Now  then,  men,  off  with  you!"  Major 
Vivian  turned  on  the  crowd  round  the  tent. 

While  the  men  dispersed,  the  stretcher-bear- 
ers stepped  beneath  the  awning  and,  under  the 
bishop's  direction,  Sergeant  Brown  was  hoisted 
from  the  ground.  As  he  was  being  carried  past 
Leslie  he  leaned  towards  his  comrade.  "Good 
man !"  he  said,  and  gave  the  trooper  a  feeble  but 
friendly  bang  on  the  top  of  the  head. 

A  few  moments  later  Leslie  followed,  and 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  67 

the  officers  and  Bishop  Raymond  were  left  alone 
under  the  awning.  Major  Vesey- Vivian  turned 
to  go. 

"Captain  Robertson,"  he  said  sharply,  "I 
should  like  a  few  words  with  you  after  lunch." 

"When  ye  please,  sir,"  responded  the  other 
surlily. 

The  major,  with  a  curt  nod,  stepped  into 
the  sunlight,  and,  after  some  orders  to  Fos- 
ter and  Jocelyn,  strode  off  towards  his  quar- 
ters. 

Bishop  Raymond  had  lingered  to  collect  his 
bottles  and  glasses.  After  carefully  pressing 
home  a  cork,  he  turned  to  Captain  Robertson, 
who  was  tying  up  his  papers  and  laying  them 
in  neat  bundles  on  the  office-table,  which  he  had 
lifted  out  of  the  tent. 

The  bishop  eyed  the  other's  lowering  brow 
for  a  moment.  "Leave  it  alone,  Robertson!" 
he  said  suddenly.  "Take  my  advice — leave  it 
alone.  I  fancy  I  know  what  you're  thinking, 
but — we  can't  be  sure.  We  don't  know  the 
facts.  Even  if  we  did,  I  doubt  if  they  would 
help  much.  There's  something  below  them  here. 
I'm  convinced  of  that." 

The  other  looked  up.  "Facts  have  to  be 
enough  for  me,  Bishop,"  he  said  sternly. 
"They're  the  things  that  get  ye  the  V.C.,  or 


68  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

get  ye  broke!  I'm  no'  sayin'  they're  aye  fair. 
And  the  facts  are  plain  enough  here — forbye 
that  damned  eddiot  Veevian  canna  see  them, 
nor  any  one  else  but  you  and  me,  it  seems!  If 
Leslie  had  gone  back — 

"He  would  have  saved  Slade?"  interrupted 
the  bishop.  "I  wonder.  We  can't  be  sure. 
Perhaps  he  wouldn't  have  got  back — perhaps  he 
knew  that.  And  he  did  save  Gerald!  If  the 
V.C.  were  simply  for  doing  your  duty — as  it 
should  be — the  case  might  be  different.  But  it 
isn't.  It's  for  Valour!  And  if  carrying  your 
comrade  over  the  open  veld  ten  weary  nights, 
with  five  thousand  of  the  cruellest  creatures — 
God  forgive  them! — the  world  has  ever  seen, 
yelling  behind  you — if  that's  not  valour,  I  don't 
understand  the  word!" 

Captain  Robertson  slipped  an  elastic  band 
round  the  last  of  his  bundles  and  dropped  it 
into  a  file.  Then  he  looked  over  at  the  speaker 
with  a  sour  smile.  "I'm  thinkin'  you  had  better 
leave  it  alone,  Bishop!"  he  observed.  "Ye  were 
right  at  first.  It's  a  queer  business,  and  talk- 
ing won't  clear  it — the  now,  anyway.  They'll 
be  waitin'  lunch  for  us."  He  lifted  an  old  rid- 
ing cane  and  a  pair  of  greasy  brown  gloves, 
and  stepped  from  behind  the  table.  Bishop 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  69 

Raymond  bent  down  and  picked  up  his  sjam- 
bok, which  had  fallen  on  the  ground  and  been 
trodden  on;  he  wiped  it  thoughtfully,  then  put 
his  hand  on  the  other's  arm,  and  they  stepped 
together  into  the  sunlight. 


CHAPTER   IV 

ONE  spring  evening  in  the  'nineties  a  girl  was 
lying  in  a  long  wicker  chair  on  the  stone  loggia 
outside  a  bedroom  of  the  Hotel  Regina,  on  Lake 
Como.  The  room  behind  her  was  in  darkness, 
but  an  almost  full  moon,  sailing  high  in  a  cloud- 
less sky  over  the  black  promontory  and  twink- 
ling lights  of  Bellagio  across  the  lake,  was 
flooding  the  grey  stone  and  pale  yellow  plaster 
of  the  hotel  f  a£ade  with  a  soft  radiance  which 
invaded  the  arched  shadows  of  the  balcony,  and 
lay  bright  upon  the  chair  and  its  occupant. 

Mabel  Arbuthnot  was  in  her  twenty-eighth 
year.  Since  her  arrival  in  Italy  three  weeks  be- 
fore, her  friends  had  been  saying  that  she  was 
looking  younger  every  day,  but  traces  of  deli- 
cacy still  showed  on  her  cheeks,  contrasting, 
when  her  face  was  in  repose,  with  the  quick,  al- 
most childlike  glance  of  her  eyes.  Her  expres- 
sion had  a  quality  of  unusual  sweetness  which, 
in  the  society  of  a  friend  or  even  of  an  acquaint- 
ance, when  she  turned  to  speak  or  to  listen, 
would  light  up  into  a  smile,  sympathetic  and 

70 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  71 

charming.  The  blue  of  her  eyes  told  of  some 
Celtic  strain,  borne  out  by  the  black  lashes  and 
the  cloud  of  dark  hair  lying  low  on  the  brow. 
Her  features  were  small  and  regular,  and  her 
complexion,  though  apt  to  be  pale  by  day,  be- 
came brilliant  in  the  evening;  but  perhaps  it 
was  the  exquisite  poise  of  her  head  and  the  grace 
of  a  tall,  slight  figure  that  had  earned  for  her 
a  reputation  for  beauty  which  was  seldom  ques- 
tioned. On  this  warm,  spring  night  she  had 
partly  undressed  and  wore  a  pale  mauve  dress- 
ing-gown trimmed  with  lace ;  but  a  pair  of  neat 
evening  shoes,  and  the  aspect  of  her  carefully 
arranged  hair,  showed  that  she  had  not  pro- 
gressed far  in  the  business  of  going  to  bed. 

Nearly  two  and  a  half  years  had  passed  since 
her  husband  had  died  of  pneumonia,  while  on 
a  shooting  visit  in  Scotland.  His  end  had  been 
tragically  sudden,  for  he  was  a  man  of  fine 
physique;  and  the  strain  of  his  short  painful 
illness,  the  grief  of  the  parting  and  the  unfor- 
gettable shock  of  her  first  sight  of  death,  had 
overwhelmed  his  young  wife,  and,  acting  on  a 
fragile  constitution,  had  brought  on  a  debili- 
tating illness,  which,  for  a  time,  threatened  to 
become  chronic. 

Mabel  was  an  only  child,  and  her  parents, 
popular,  easy-going  people,  were  both  under 


72  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

thirty  when  she  was  born.  Most  of  her  early 
years  had  been  spent  in  the  country,  for  she  was 
a  delicate  creature  from  the  first,  and  the  fam- 
ily doctor  had  insisted  on  her  being  kept  as  much 
as  possible  out  of  London.  Under  the  circum- 
stances, it  was  inevitable,  with  their  many  social 
interests  and  duties,  that  her  father  and  mother 
should  often  be  removed  from  the  path  of  her 
daily  life.  But  she  had  good  nurses  and 
governesses,  and,  as  the  years  passed,  she  out- 
grew her  ailments,  and  developed  into  an  active, 
happy  girl,  fond  of  riding  and  familiar  with 
every  path  and  corner  of  the  woods  and  fields 
around  her  north-country  home.  She  early  ac- 
quired a  passion  for  reading,  and  her  days  being 
spent,  for  the  most  part,  without  companions 
of  her  own  age,  she  lived  much  in  a  fairy  world 
of  her  own  creation,  which  she  staged  and  peo- 
pled piecemeal  from  the  stories  and  pictures  of 
her  favourite  books. 

In  her  seventeenth  year  came  a  visit  to 
France  with  her  mother;  and  the  following 
winter  she  spent  with  her  governess  in  Italy. 
The  latter  experience  awoke  the  intellectual  and 
emotional  side  of  her  nature,  which  had  hither- 
to been  dreaming.  With  her  first  sight  of  the 
South,  bathed  in  sunlight  and  soft  with  the 
haze  that,  when  the  grapes  are  ripe,  hangs  like 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  73 

a  benediction  over  Lombardy  and  the  Lakes, 
her  childish  fairyland  of  northern  glades  and 
wandering  knights  vanished  for  ever  from  her 
heart,  and  Italy,  its  ancient  cities  and  smiling 
plains,  its  art  and  its  story,  became  to  her  an 
absorbing  joy  and  the  very  habitation  of  ro- 
mance. 

When  she  returned  to  England  she  was  pre- 
sented, and  at  once  found  herself  swept  into  the 
stream  of  balls  and  parties  of  her  first  London 
season.  She  had  expected  to  hate  it  all;  amid 
the  studies  and  reveries  of  her  Italian  winter, 
when  she  thought  of  the  glitter  and  effort  that 
lay  in  the  near  future,  a  feeling  almost  of  dread 
had  laid  hold  of  her.  But  society  is  more  cun- 
ningly devised  than  she  had  guessed.  The  pleas- 
antest  and  most  decorative  people  in  every  age 
have  not  laid  up  experience  towards  the  perpetu- 
ating of  their  kind  any  more  clumsily  than  have 
the  butterflies  and  the  flowers ;  and  Mabel,  who 
was  pretty  and  rich  and  constitutionally  anxious 
to  please,  found  that  the  brilliant,  cosmopolitan 
world  of  modern  London  knows  how  to  make 
the  achievement  of  social  popularity  as  agree- 
able and  exciting  an  experience  for  a  young  girl 
as  any  other,  perhaps,  in  this  life.  Then  came 
a  number  of  country-house  visits,  and,  in  the 
autumn,  a  large  party  at  her  own  home,  which, 


74  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

as  it  was  the  first  time  her  parents  had  enter- 
tained there  since  she  came  out,  was  composed 
chiefly  of  young  people. 

Among  the  guests  was  her  cousin,  Gerald 
Raymond,  who  proceeded  to  fall  violently  in 
love  with  her.  He  was  a  slight,  handsome  youth 
with  black,  curly  hair,  and  eyes  rather  like  a 
young  fawn.  He  was  not  clever,  but  he  danced 
exquisitely,  and  was  reckoned  a  fine  rider  even 
for  a  family  whose  members,  in  the  heat  of  their 
bitterest  feuds,  never  troubled  to  dispute  each 
other's  horsemanship;  and  Mabel  had  known 
him  all  her  life.  About  as  unlikely  a  suitor,  it 
might  be  thought,  to  storm  the  heart  of  a  young 
woman  who  had,  as  she  believed,  dedicated  her- 
self to  the  study  of  Italian  primitives  only  a 
few  months  before,  as  could  well  be  found.  But 
it  is  an  old  saying  that  love  goes  by  contraries, 
and  very  young  girls,  even  if  they  are  beautiful 
and  popular,  are  more  affected  by  genuine 
courtship  than  is  commonly  admitted,  especially 
when,  as  in  this  case,  they  are  of  an  affection- 
ate disposition,  and  for  the  moment,  partially 
bereft  of  their  senses  by  astonishment. 

Gerald  was  three  years  Mabel's  senior.  Ever 
since  she  could  remember,  he  had  been  her  guide 
in  all  that  related  to  the  out-door  life  which  one 
side  of  her  temperament  adored.  In  her  youth- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  75 

ful  eyes  he  had  held  the  place  that  a  captain 
of  the  eleven  occupies  to  his  fag,  and  for  years 
he  was  the  only  being  in  the  world  who  could, 
as  the  expression  goes,  bring  Mabel's  heart  to 
her  mouth,  by  a  word  of  praise.  Needless  to 
say,  he  was  totally  unaware  of  this  and,  during 
the  period  in  question,  would  have  probably  re- 
garded the  distinction  with  indifference.  But 
when  the  scales  fell  from  his  eyes  and  he  saw  in 
his  former  playmate  a  vision  of  beauty  at  whose 
feet  he  fell  headlong,  this  ancient  asc'endancy 
was  nearer  helping  his  cause  than  he  might  have 
guessed,  even  had  he  known  of  its  existence. 

But  with  a  girl  of  Mabel's  age  and  unawak- 
ened  emotions,  it  is  a  long  step  from  flattered 
and  somewhat  touched  surprise  to  anything  like 
falling  seriously  in  love.  She  rode  with  her 
cousin  and  played  tennis  with  him,  and,  to  her 
mother's  sudden  and  obvious  apprehension,  she 
gave  him  six  valses  at  the  County  Ball,  to  which 
her  parents  had  brought  their  house-party.  If 
Gerald,  after  skilfully  arranging  that  they 
should  drive  home  together,  had  mustered  up  his 
courage,  declared  his  love,  and  kissed  her  in 
the  depths  of  the  family  landau,  while  the  mu- 
sic of  their  last  dance  was  still  throbbing  in  her 
brain,  instead  of  selecting  the  kitchen-garden 
next  morning  for  the  attempt,  it  is  just  pos- 


76  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

sible  that  events  might  have  turned  out  differ- 
ently for  both  of  them.  But  as  it  was,  Gerald 
failed  among  the  vegetables,  and  failed  a  few 
weeks  later  for  the  army,  and,  after  a  series  of 
violent  quarrels  with  his  father,  he  disappeared 
out  of  her  ken.  One  note  she  received,  telling 
her,  under  pledge  of  secrecy,  that  he  was  on  his 
way  to  South  Africa  to  enlist  in  the  Protecto- 
rate Frontier  Mounted  Police ;  but  it  is  doubtful 
if  even  requited  love  would  have  turned  Gerald 
into  a  good  correspondent,  and  Mabel  was 
scarcely  surprised  that,  to  the  two  letters  she 
wrote  in  answer,  she  got  no  reply. 

The  incident  left  her  for  a  time  much  dis- 
tressed. She  had  not  been  in  love  with  her 
cousin — of  that  she  was  sure;  and  yet  when  he 
was  gone  in  the  cloud  of  his  misfortunes,  for 
some  of  which,  at  least,  she  felt  responsible,  he 
left  her  inexplicably  affected.  With  a  girl  of 
Mabel's  disposition  a  certain  sentiment,  al- 
ways a  little  different  from  any  other,  attaches 
to  the  man  who  has  been  the  first  to  pay  the 
compliment  of  proposing  to  her.  Perhaps  if 
he  had  been  a  budding  artist  or  poet,  if  he  had 
touched  the  inner,  more  pensive  side  of  her 
character,  she  might  have  come  to  give  him, 
when  he  was  gone,  what  he  had  failed  to  obtain 
in  person.  But  Gerald  was  not  a  romantic  in- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  77 

dividual,  and,  although  for  some  time  after  his 
departure  Mabel  could  never  see  his  saddle 
hanging  in  the  harness-room  without  some  emo- 
tion, yet,  as  the  months  passed,  even  this  trib- 
ute to  his  memory,  sincere  as  it  was,  insensibly 
died  away. 

And  now,  on  this  soft  Italian  evening,  across 
the  intervening  years  of  gaiety  and  marriage,  of 
hope  and  sorrow,  recollections  of  those  long- 
past  events  were  crowding  each  other  in  her 
brain  and,  almost  unknown  to  herself,  were 
clothing  themselves  in  sensations  which,  in  the 
days  of  their  happening,  had  slept  profoundly 
and  were  but  now  awakening.  .  .  . 

At  the  sound  of  voices  and  steps  issuing  from 
the  French  windows  of  the  dining-room  below, 
she  put  out  her  hand  and,  lighting  an  electric 
reading-lamp  which  stood  by  her  elbow,  lifted 
a  writing-case  from  the  table.  After  glancing 
idly  at  some  letters  that  had  arrived  by  the  after- 
noon post,  she  slipped  them  between  the  pages 
of  the  blotter  and,  feeling  in  a  pocket  of  the 
case,  pulled  out  an  envelope.  From  this  she  took 
a  sheet  of  foreign  paper,  covered  with  large 
childish-looking  characters,  and  dated  "R.M.S. 
Norham  Castle.  Off  Madeira."  A  smile  rose 
to  her  lips  as  she  glanced  down  the  page. 


78  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

'Dear  Mabel  (the  letter  ran),  Thanks  aw- 
fully for  your  note.  It  was  very  nice  of  you  to 
write,  and  I  was  delighted  to  get  it  and  to  hear 
that  though  you  had  been  so  seedy  you  were  a 
bit  fitter  again.  It  was  very  nice  of  you  to  sug- 
gest my  coming  to  Italy  instead  of  going 
straight  home,  and  the  doctors  think  it  a  very 
good  scheme,  and  I  am  awfully  keen  on  the  idea. 
It  will  be  very  jolly  to  see  you  again  after  such 
a  long  time  and  I  am  looking  forward  to  it 
tremendously. 

"Leslie  is  coming  too,  as  he  is  seedy  too,  and 
the  doctors  do  not  want  him  to  go  home  till  it 
gets  a  bit  warmer.  The  captain  says  we  ought 
to  get  to  Italy  about  as  soon  as  this,  so  I  will 
not  write  any  more  just  now.  St.  John  is  on 
board  and  asks  me  to  send  you  his  love.  He  has 
been  very  decent. 

"With  ever  so  many  thanks  for  your  letter, 
and  looking  forward  more  than  I  can  say  to 
seeing  you  again,  I  remain, 

"Your  affect,  cousin, 

"GERALD. 

"P.S.  I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  bringing 
Leslie,  he  is  a  very  decent  young  chap." 

Mabel  laughed  aloud  as  she  finished  the  post- 
script. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  79 

"Dear  old  Gerald,"  she  murmured,  "he,  cer- 
tainly, hasn't  changed !  He  might  have  written 
that  the  day  he  left  home.  How  nice  it  will  be 
to  see  him  again!" 

For  some  moments  she  gazed  dreamily  over 
the  moonlit  lake.  Then,  laying  her  cousin's  note 
on  the  blotter,  she  rose  and,  with  the  case  in  her 
hand,  lifted  the  lamp  and  entered  the  French 
window.  After  placing  the  light  on  a  small 
table  by  her  bed,  she  went  to  a  writing  table 
standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  opened  a 
leather  despatch  box.  From  the  top  of  a  heap 
of  papers  she  picked  up  a  large  envelope,  from 
which  she  took  a  cabinet  photograph.  The  elec- 
tric globe  above  the  table  was  unlit;  with  the 
photograph  in  her  hand,  she  returned  to  her  bed- 
side, and,  moving  the  light  a  little  nearer,  lay 
down  on  the  coverlet. 

She  scrutinised  the  picture  carefully — a  smile 
still  lingering  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 
Then  her  expression  softened.  "Poor  Gerald! 
What  a  hard  time  he  must  have  had."  Again 
her  eyes  wandered  to  the  moonlight.  "I  wonder 
if  he  will  find  me  much  changed,"  she  murmured, 
"I  wonder." 

A  knock  sounded  on  a  door  at  the  far  end  of 
the  room.  Mabel  glanced  up.  The  handle  rat- 
tled and  a  chink  of  light  from  the  passage  slid 


80  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

across  the  obscurity  of  the  opposite  wall.  A 
voice  asked, 

"May  I  come  in,  dear?" 

Mabel,  slipping  the  photograph  into  her  writ- 
ing-case, leaned  back  on  the  pillows.  "Yes, 
Cousin  Grace,"  she  called  out,  "do  come  in!" 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  door  opened  and  a  little,  stout  lady  in  a 
black  evening  gown  entered  the  room. 

"All  in  darkness,  dear!"  she  exclaimed  briskly, 
"Shall  I  turn  on  your  light?" 

"Please  do,"  replied  Mabel.  "I'm  afraid  you 
wouldn't  be  able  to  work  by  this  one." 

The  newcomer  turned  the  switch  beside  her, 
which  communicated  with  the  globe  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  and,  after  closing  the  door,  wheeled 
an  armchair  towards  the  bed. 

"Well,  dear,  how  are  you  this  evening?" 
Mabel's  visitor  sat  down,  and,  after  arranging 
a  Shetland  shawl  about  her  plump  shoulders, 
produced  another,  in  process  of  manufacture, 
from  an  embroidered  bag,  and  began  to  knit. 

Lady  Grace  Whipham  had  passed  her  sixtieth 
year,  but  her  cheeks  were  still  pink  and  soft  and 
her  blue  eyes  vivacious.  Having  no  children  of 
her  own,  she  lavished  a  semi-maternal  interest 
and  affection  on  her  younger  relatives,  among 
whom  Mabel  Arbuthnot  was  her  favourite.  To 
many  unselfish  traits,  common  to  her  sex,  she 
added  a  pelican-like  devotion  to  the  members  of 

81 


82  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

her  family  circle,  which  no  misfortune  and  very 
few  misdeeds  on  their  part  could  shake.  Her 
temper  was  quick  and  she  had  the  fussiness 
which  goes  often  with  a  kind  heart ;  but  her  dis- 
position was  cheerful  and  uncritical,  and,  in  her 
devout  moments,  she  nourished  a  humble  satis- 
faction that  she  could  claim  to  have  learned  with 
the  Apostle,  in  whatsoever  state  she  was,  there- 
with to  be  content.  The  coincidence  that,  so  far 
as  this  world  went,  she  could  not  conceive  herself 
wishing  to  dwell  in  any  state  but  that  to  which 
she  had  been  born,  never  gave  her  a  moment's 
reflection,  and,  if  it  had,  it  would  but  have  added 
to  her  tranquillity. 

She  had  been  greatly  concerned  during  the 
long  months  of  Mabel's  illness,  and  it  was  the 
hope  of  persuading  the  latter  to  take  a  course 
of  electric  baths  which  a  rising  Italian  doctor 
had  installed  near  the  Hotel  Regina  on  Lake 
Como,  and  of  which  Lady  Grace  had  heard 
great  marvels,  that  had  prompted  her  to  induce 
the  unwilling  Sir  Peter  to  shut  up  their  London 
house  and  bring  her  abroad  this  spring.  Mabel, 
who  was  much  attached  to  both  her  and  her  hus- 
band, had  welcomed  the  opportunity  of  going 
to  Italy  in  their  care,  and  the  success  which  had 
so  far  attended  the  experiment,  pleased  her  al- 
most as  much  on  her  cousin's  account  as  on  her 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  83 

own.  So  she  smiled  brightly  as  she  answered  the 
older  lady's  enquiry. 

"Much  better,  thank  you,  Cousin  Grace." 

"No  headache?" 

"None  at  all.  I  think  Dr.  Florio's  baths  are 
beginning  to  do  me  good  already." 

Lady  Grace  settled  back  in  her  chair.  "I 
should  hope  so,  dear!  You've  been  at  them  for 
over  a  fortnight  now." 

"Yes — nearly  three  weeks.  But  Dr.  Florio 
says  himself  that  it  takes  some  time  before  they 
begin  to  really  affect  one.  I  expect  it's  been  the 
place  as  much  as  anything  that  has  helped  me 
so  far.  I  do  love  it,  and  that  just  makes  all  the 
difference  when  one  is  beginning  to  get 
stronger." 

"The  place  wouldn't  have  done  it  without  the 
baths,"  responded  Lady  Grace,  her  needles 
clicking  busily. 

Mabel  laughed.  "Well,  you  had  better  tell 
Dr.  Florio  that.  He  confided  to  me  this  morn- 
ing that  he  thought  baths  were  becoming  rather 
over-rated  things — that  there  was  something  in 
the  old-fashioned  idea  of  their  just  being  meant 
for  cleaning  people  when  they  were  dirty." 

"He  didn't  say  that  about  his  electric  ones!" 
said  Lady  Grace  in  scandalised  tones. 

"Yes,  especially  electric  ones — that's  why  he 


84  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

uses  a  thing  like  a  spade  to  scrape  his  patients 
with,"  continued  Mabel,  laughing.  "He  was 
only  chaffing,  Cousin  Grace!"  she  added.  "Of 
course  he  believes  in  electricity  tremendously. 
He  just  meant  that  half  the  bathing  cures  now- 
adays are  beneficial  chiefly  because  people  be- 
lieve in  them.  As  he  remarked,  'Zey  are  not 
good  nor  bad,  but  ze  thought  make  'em  so !'  * 

Lady  Grace  sniffed.  "It's  a  great  pity  Dr. 
Florio  is  so  fond  of  airing  his  English  and  of 
filling  his  patient's  heads  with  ideas  about  their 
treatments,  instead  of  being  satisfied  with  cur- 
ing what's  wrong  with  them." 

"I  love  the  dottore's  English — it's  so  much 
more  fluent  than  ours,"  responded  her  cousin, 
smiling.  "Besides,  I  might  have  been  able  to 
follow  the  gist  of  his  remark  even  if  he'd  been 
speaking  his  native  tongue.  It  has  been  made 
before,  you  know." 

"Not  by  any  good  English  doctor,  Mabel," 
said  Lady  Grace  firmly.  "Of  course  Dr.  Florio 
is  very  clever  and  all  that,  otherwise  he  wouldn't 
have  so  many  English  people  one  knows  coming 
to  him;  but  I've  no  patience  with  these  new- 
fangled Continental  ideas  of  one's  thoughts  af- 
fecting one's  health.  When  I  am  ill,  I  feel  ill, 
and  all  the  thinking  in  the  world  won't  make  me 
feel  well  till  I  either  get  better  myself — which  is 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  85 

what  usually  happens,  I'm  glad  to  say — or  until 
I'm  given  something  to  cure  me." 

"But  surely  faith  does  help  the  cure?" 

"I  am  not  talking  of  Faith,  dear,"  responded 
Lady  Grace  solemnly,  "that  is  another  matter, 
and  of  course  it  helps  in  everything.  But  so  far 
as  medicines  and  treatments  go,  they  are  like 
those  hotel  meals — one  has  to  put  up  with  them 
when  one  comes  abroad  for  the  purpose,  but  the 
fewer  questions  one  asks  about  them  the  better." 

"I  never  feel  like  that,"  said  Mabel.  "Being 
ill  is  unpleasant  enough,  in  all  conscience,  but  it 
is  a  relief  when  I  come  across  a  doctor — like  Dr. 
Florio,  for  instance — who  doesn't  just  treat  me 
like  a  child,  but  does  interest  me  in ' 

"I  don't  want  to  be  interested  in  what's  the 
matter  with  me!"  interrupted  Lady  Grace. 
"That's  where  people  nowadays  are  so  silly.  I 
prefer  to  think  about  pleasant  things — not  dis- 
agreeables, like  being  ill." 

"But  so  many  of  the  problems  of  life  are  con- 
nected with  one's  health " 

"I  really  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  the 
'problems'  of  life,  Mabel,"  responded  the  older 
lady,  taking  a  new  skein  of  wool  from  her  bag 
and  slipping  it  over  the  back  of  a  chair  prepara- 
tory to  winding  it  into  a  ball.  "It's  just  a  way 
young  people  have  got  into  of  talking  now- 


86  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

adays.  When  I  was  your  age,  people  spoke  of 
problems  when  they  meant  things  in  Parliament 
like  the  Reform  Bill  and  so  on.  But  no  one — 
certainly  no  girls — ever  dreamed  of  using  such 
expressions  about  themselves.  If  you  mean  the 
difficulties  and  illnesses  that  have  to  be  put  up 
with,  of  course  they're  unpleasant,  and  I  dare- 
say if  one  thinks  about  them  too  much,  they  will 
make  one  ill.  But  they  are  no  more  'problems' 
to-day  than  they  were  in  your  great-grand- 
mother's time — that  is,  if  one  has  any  belief  at 
all  in  Providence  or  religion." 

Mabel  made  no  reply.  The  conversation  had 
taken  a  line  which,  for  a  variety  of  reasons,  she 
tried  to  avoid  in  her  talks  with  her  cousin,  so  she 
turned  and  gazed  out  of  the  window  in  silence. 
From  her  bed,  which  projected  into  the  room  at 
right  angles  to  the  left  wall,  she  could  see  the 
mountains  and  the  lake;  above,  framed  in  the 
arch  of  the  loggia,  the  pale,  southern  sky  shone 
serene  and  cloudless. 

"Do  you  feel  the  air  too  much,  dear?"  she  en- 
quired after  a  pause.  "Shall  I  close  the  window 
a  little?" 

Lady  Grace  drew  the  shawl  she  was  wearing 
closer  round  her  neck.  "No,  thank  you.  I  like 
it  after  that  stuffy  dining-room.  What  a  lovely 
evening  it  is." 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  87 

"Perfectly  lovely.  I  do  wish  we  didn't  have 
those  sudden  storms  from  the  lake  though! 
They're  the  one  thing  I  don't  like  about  this 
place.  Last  night  when  I  went  to  bed,  every- 
thing was  still  and  clear,  and,  of  course,  I  left 
both  windows  and  the  shutters  wide  open.  I  had 
just  fallen  asleep  when  the  shutters  of  the  big 
window  blew  together  with  a  fiendish  crash,  and 
though  I  wrestled  with  them  for  ages  I  couldn't 
get  them  open  again.  Did  you  hear  the  rain? 
It  was  an  absolute  deluge  while  it  lasted." 

"Yes.  I  made  Peter  get  up  and  close  the 
window.  Our  shutters  banged,  too.  Have  you 
had  yours  seen  to?" 

"I  told  Thomson  about  it.  I  think  they're  all 
right.  Besides,  I  don't  expect  we  shall  have  an- 
other storm  to-night — it  is  so  beautiful  now." 

Lady  Grace  paused  in  her  winding  to  unravel 
a  knot.  "Oh,  you  can't  judge  by  that,"  she  re- 
marked. "The  manager  says  this  is  the  season 
for  them — we  may  expect  them  every  night." 

Mabel's  eyes  had  wandered  far  away  to  the 
shining  dome  of  Monte  Crocione;  a  torrent 
near  the  summit  flashed  in  the  moonlight  like  a 
tiny  incandescent  wire.  "I  hope  not,"  she  re- 
joined languidly. 

Lady  Grace  jerked  a  refractory  strand  out  of 
a  crack  in  the  chair-back,  finished  the  winding 


88  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

of  her  ball  and,  pushing  the  chair  away  with  her 
foot,  took  up  her  knitting.  "Well,  I  hear 
they're  expected  at  11,"  she  said  briskly,  after  a 
pause. 

Mabel  turned.    "Who,  dear?    The  storms?" 

"No,  Mr.  Leslie  and  Lord  Daneborough." 

"Oh." 

"Yes,  the  manager  has  just  had  a  wire.  I  feel 
quite  excited!  How  long  do  you  think  he  will 
stay?" 

Mabel  absently  fingered  the  writing-case  ly- 
ing on  the  bed  beside  her.  "I've  no  idea.  Until 
he  gets  stronger,  I  suppose.  He  said  nothing 
in  his  letter  about  his  knee  but  it  probably 
bothers  him  a  good  deal  still.  The  doctors  don't 
want  him  to  go  home  till  the  weather  is  warmer." 

Lady  Grace's  needles  began  to  click  again. 
"I  didn't  mean  Lord  Daneborough,  Mabel!  I 
meant  Mr.  Leslie,  of  course." 

"Why  'of  course,'  Cousin  Grace?" 

"What  a  question,  dear!  One  would  think 
you  didn't  know  that  Mr.  Leslie  is  the  most- 
talked-of  man  in  England  just  now!  All  the 
papers  have  been  full  of  nothing  else.  I  saw  a 
most  interesting  picture  in.one  of  the  illustrated 
papers  downstairs  of  him  carrying  Gerald 
Daneborough  all  those  hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  miles  without  anything  to  eat  or  drink  and 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  89 

with  thousands  of  savages  chasing  him  all  the 
time  till  they  both  fell  fainting  into  the  camp  at 
MacSweeney — I  think  it  was — and  Bishop  Ray- 
mond picked  them  up  and  nursed  them  back  to 
life." 

Mabel  smiled.  "It  sounds  as  though  it  must 
have  been  one  of  those  new  cinematographs, 
Cousin  Grace." 

"Nonsense,  dear!  It  was  a  picture  in  the 
Graphic.  I  took  it  up  to  my  room  twice  to  show 
to  you,  but  the  waiter  came  and  asked  for  it 
each  time — entirely  unnecessary  of  him.  But 
I've  got  this  week's  number  with  me — it  had 

just  arrived "  Lady  Grace  twisted  in  her 

chair  and  fumbled  behind  her.  "Here  it  is — I 
was  sitting  on  it.  There's  a  picture  of  him  and 
a  notice  saying  he's  on  his  way  home,  and  an- 
other long  account  of  it  all.  Look!  There  he 
is  in  uniform.  He's  very  good-looking,  isn't 
he?" 

Mabel  leaned  forward  and  took  the  paper. 
"Thank  you,"  she  said,  glancing  at  the  open 
page.  "Yes,  I've  seen  that  picture  before.  I'll 
read  about  it  afterwards."  Laying  the  maga- 
zine on  the  bed  beside  her,  she  turned  again  to- 
wards the  window. 

Lady  Grace  possessed  an  interest  in  her  fel- 
low-creatures which  amounted  to  a  hobby.  The 


90  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

pleasure  she  derived  from  general  society  was 
that  of  a  tourist  with  a  passion  for  indiscrimi- 
nate sight-seeing1,  but  (and  of  this  fact  her 
cousin  was  well  aware)  she  was  quite  without 
the  collector's  instinct — if  the  phrase  may  be 
employed  in  connection  with  human,  as  well  as 
other  rarities.  Her  acquaintanceship  was  vast 
and  catholic,  but  to  the  number  of  her  intimate 
friends  she  never  added,  except,  perhaps,  when 
one  of  her  family  circle  married  somebody  she 
approved  of.  Though  her  curiosity  about 
strangers  was  always  on  the  stretch,  her  emo- 
tions were  left  untouched — not  because  they 
were  lacking,  but  because,  like  the  typical 
Briton  abroad,  she  kept  them  with  her  affec- 
tions at  home.  She  liked  to  meet  distinguished 
people  just  as  she  would  have  liked,  had  she 
cared  for  art,  to  see  famous  pictures,  but,  her 
temperament  being  what  it  was,  the  personali- 
ties of  the  former  left  her  as  uninterested  as  the 
pigments  of  the  latter  would  have  done. 
Though  far  from  unintelligent  herself,  or  with- 
out a  certain  respect  for  the  quality  in  others, 
she  valued  much  more  highly,  as  a  basis  for 
friendship,  those  attributes  which  Providence 
granted  to  every  individual,  not  actually  crazy 
or  disreputable,  who  happened  to  have  been 
born  in  the  circle  to  which  she  herself  belonged. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  91 

The  fact  that  the  exploits  or  vagaries  of  celeb- 
rities entertained  her  as  a  performance  made 
her  the  more  indisposed  to  welcome  them  by  her 
hearth,  and  not  improbably  the  pleasure  she  got 
out  of  her  "freaks,"  as  she  sometimes  termed  the 
distinguished  persons  she  met  outside  her  own 
world,  was  a  reaction  of  the  more  volatile  ele- 
ments of  her  nature  upon  the  intensely  tribal 
quality  of  her  real  affections. 

To  Mabel,  whose  inclination  was  to  avoid 
making  an  acquaintance  unless  she  saw  in  the 
stranger  a  promise  of  friendship,  and  to  whom 
purely  social  distinctions  meant  very  little,  this 
aspect  of  her  cousin's  character  was  a  source  of 
mingled  amusement  and  annoyance.  While 
recognising  its  harmlessness  from  Lady  Grace's 
point  of  view,  she  could  not  help  noticing  the 
less  agreeable  impression  it  sometimes  made 
upon  the  other  parties  to  the  situation  when 
they  became  aware  of  its  peculiarities.  It  was, 
therefore,  with  no  great  enthusiasm  in  her  voice, 
that  she  added, 

"I  rather  wonder  at  Mr.  Leslie  coming  when 
he  has  no  friends  here.  There  will  be  very  little 
for  him  to  do." 

"I  don't  expect  he'll  want  to  do  much,"  re- 
sponded her  companion.  "I  suppose  he's  com- 
ing for  the  same  reason  as  Lord  Daneborough 


92  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

—for  the  sake  of  his  health.  He  must  need  a 
rest  in  all  conscience!  Being  wounded  is  noth- 
ing to  what  Mr.  Leslie  went  through,  Mabel. 
I  heard  to-day  that  he's  to  get  his  V.C.  from  the 
Queen  herself  at  Windsor  in  May.  Perhaps 
he'll  stay  here  till  then." 

"Perhaps." 

"I  wonder  who  he  is,"  continued  Lady  Grace 
meditatively. 

"He  was  a  trooper  in  the  Protectorate  Fron- 
tier Police." 

"Of  course,  I  know  that,  dear.  I'm  wonder- 
ing who  his  people  are.  Somebody  told  me  he 
was  Irish.  Perhaps  he's  one  of  the  Kilracket 
Leslies — they're  Irish,  of  course — but  I  expect 
we  should  have  heard  if  he  were." 

"I  expect  you  would.  The  cinematograph 
picture  would  have  had  him  waving  a  shillalah." 
Mabel  picked  up  the  illustrated  paper  and  laid 
it  on  the  table  beside  her.  "I  can't  see  that  it 
matters  much.  The  truth  is  I  am  getting  a  little 
tired  of  Trooper  Leslie.  I'm  glad  he's  to  get 
his  V.C.,  but  I  think  all  the  fuss  that's  being 
made  about  him  is  rather  hard  on  Gerald." 

Lady  Grace  stared.  "Why? — what  did  he 
do?" 

"He  must  have  done  a  good  deal,  I  think," 
responded  her  cousin.  "The  papers  seem  to 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  93 

me  very  silly.  They  write  as  though  he  had 
been  simply  a  very  heavy,  brown-paper  parcel 
broken  at  one  end  and  labelled  'Nobleman. 
Very  fragile.  This  side  up.'  It's  so  absurd  to 
talk  like  that!  Mr.  Leslie  had  only  been  in 
Africa  a  few  months,  and,  however  brave  he 
was,  he  couldn't  have  known  his  way  and  where 
to  get  food  and  all  that,  unless  Gerald  had 
helped  him.  What  I  think  so  unfair  is  that 
there  would  never  have  been  nearly  so  much 
fuss  if  Gerald  had  not  succeeded  to  his  title  just 
then.  The  public  forget  all  about  his  having 
been  a  sergeant  in  the  best-known  irregular 
corps  in  South  Africa  and  simply  drag  in  his 
name  the  same  way  as  they  do  a  duchess's  who 
ties  up  parcels  at  a  charity  bazaar.  Only  in  this 
case,  Gerald  being  the  parcel  himself,  Mr.  Les- 
lie is  simply  flooded  in  glory!" 

"That's  all  nonsense,  Mabel!"  rejoined  Lady 
Grace.  "Mr.  Leslie  would  have  been  a  hero 
anyway !  I  know  nothing  about  the  public,  and 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  the  fact  that  people 
one  knows  like  St.  John  Raymond  and  Bertie 
Vesey- Vivian,  and  Lord  Daneborough  himself 
of  course — are  connected  with  the  affair,  merely 
makes  it  more  interesting  to  read  and  talk 
about.  Nothing  more." 

"But,  Cousin  Grace,"  cried  Mabel,  laughing, 


94  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"that's  exactly  what  I  mean!  You  are  just  like 
every  one  else— 

"If  you  mean  to  class  me  with  the  general 
public,  Mabel—  "  began  the  older  lady  stiffly 
— a  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  her.  "My 
dear,"  she  interpolated  hastily,  "that's  Peter! 
Do  you  think  you  want  to  see  him?  He's  very 
tiresome  to-night.  They  wouldn't  let  him  open 
the  windows  in  the  dining-room  and  what  be- 
tween that  and " 

"Yes,  of  course,  Cousin  Grace,"  interrupted 
Mabel,  laughing.  "I  should  love  to  see  him! 
Come  in!"  she  cried. 

The  handle  turned  and  the  door  opened  cau- 
tiously. "Quite  sure  you  want  a  visitor?"  en- 
quired a  voice. 

Mabel  sat  up  higher  against  her  pillows  and 
tidied  the  folds  of  her  gown.  "Yes,  Cousin 
Peter,"  she  called,  "do  come  in!" 

Lady  Grace  had  been  staring  at  the  revolving 
handle.  "Come  in,  dear,  and  shut  the  door!" 
she  cried,  sharply,  "we're  in  a  draught." 

The  door  opened  another  foot,  then  stopped. 
A  second  voice  came  from  the  passage.  "Hullo! 
I  say,  Uncle  Peter—  — !"  The  door  closed 
again  on  a  confused  murmur  of  conversation 
which  rose  and  fell  to  the  ears  of  the  listeners 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  95 

within  the  room,  as  the  lock  banged  gently  in 
the  breeze. 

"Drat  the  man,  what  is  he  doing?"  ejaculated 
Lady  Grace.  Clasping  her  knitting  to  her  lap, 
she  crossed  the  room  and  threw  open  the  door. 
"Come  in  or  stay  out,  Peter!  Don't  stand  there 
making — What  d'you  say  ?  Oh,  it's  you,  Hugh. 
What?  Bishop  Raymond?  Really."  She 
turned  towards  the  bed.  "Mabel,  Hugh's  here. 
He  says  Bishop  Raymond's  expected  to-night." 

Mabel  leaned  forward.  "Cousin  St.  John. 
How  delightful!  I  thought  he  was  going 
straight  home.  When  did  General  Mackworth 
hear?" 

Lady  Grace  drew  her  shawl  about  her.  "Can 
he  come  in  for  a  minute,  Mabel?  I  can't  stand 
here  in  this  draught." 

Mabel  slipped  her  feet  quickly  to  the  ground, 
and,  putting  her  hand  to  her  hair,  rose  from  the 
bed.  "Certainly,"  she  said,  "if  he  won't  mind 
my  room  being  untidy." 

Lady  Grace  turned  to  the  others.  "Come  in, 
both  of  you,  and  shut  the  door,"  she  said,  going 
back  to  her  chair. 

Two  men  in  evening  dress,  wearing  dinner 
jackets,  appeared  on  the  threshold — the 
younger  stepping  aside  and  motioning  to  his 
companion  to  lead  the  way. 


CHAPTER   VI 

"GOOD-EVENING,  Cousin  Peter — good-even- 
ing1, General  Mackworth."  Mabel,  smiling  to 
the  newcomers,  turned  and  arranged  some  cush- 
ions on  a  sofa  which  stood  across  the  foot  of  the 
bed. 

Sir  Peter  Whipham  was  a  clean-shaven,  spare 
man  of  about  sixty,  with  the  ascetic  features 
and  detached  expression  of  an  enthusiast.  His 
lined  face  and  quick  yet  tranquil  blue  eyes 
would  have  become  equally  well  a  priest's  bi- 
retta  or  a  philosopher's  skull-cap,  but  as  a 
matter  of  fact  they  had  appeared  for  thirty-five 
winters  and  more  below  the  peaked  cap  of  a 
Master-of -hounds.  Horses  were  more  than  a 
kingdom  to  Sir  Peter.  But  for  his  home  affec- 
tions which,  as  he  was  a  humble-minded,  simple 
man,  were  largely  influenced  by  his  wife,  the 
noblest  of  animals  was  all  the  world  to  him. 
He  remembered  places  by  the  horses  he  had 
bought,  sold,  or  seen  in  them;  people  by  the 
mounts  they  rode  or  owned,  and  his  views  on 
public  affairs  were  governed  by  their  influence, 

96 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  97 

as  he  saw  it,  on  all  that  affected  British  stables. 
He  was  a  retiring"  man  in  general  society,  but 
he  had  an  odd  habit  in  conversation  of  gesticu- 
lating rapidly  with  his  right  hand,  and  of 
mimicing,  as  though  unconsciously,  any  pe- 
culiarity of  the  individual  he  happened  to  be 
talking  about.  "Blind  as  a  bat,"  he  would  say, 
and  dart  his  head  forward  with  tightly  closed 
eyes;  "Stone  deaf,"  and  his  right  hand  would 
curve  momentarily  behind  his  ear;  or,  if  the  idea 
struck  him  that  the  person — or  horse — he  was 
speaking  of,  walked  like  a  camel,  his  com- 
panion would  see  a  rapid  interlude  depicting  the 
gait  of  that  animal  as  Sir  Peter  conceived  it. 
It  was  all  done  so  swiftly  and  with  so  much 
gravity  that  the  observer  was  apt  to  be  too 
much  surprised  to  note,  until  afterwards,  the 
excellence  of  the  performance. 

"Evenin',  Mabel,"  he  rejoined,  in  answer  to 
his  cousin's  greeting.  "Hot  night!"  he  added, 
flapping  a  copy  of  the  Times  vigorously  across 
his  face. 

"Will  you,  or  will  you  not,  stop  making 
draughts,  Peter?"  His  wife  looked  up  testily 
from  her  chair.  "If  you  are  hot  go  to  the  win- 
dow." 

Sir  Peter  strolled  obediently  to  the  French 


98  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

window  and,  after  glancing  at  the  sky,  stepped 
on  to  the  loggia. 

Mabel  had  sat  down  on  the  sofa  and,  putting 
her  feet  up,  was  arranging  a  white  Cashmere 
shawl  over  them.  Her  other  visitor  stepped 
forward.  "Allow  me."  Bending  down  he  un- 
folded the  wrap  and  laid  it  carefully  over  her 
ankles. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Mabel,  smil- 
ing. "Please  forgive  me  for  putting  my  feet 
up,  but  I  have  been  walking  quite  a  lot  to-day, 
for  the  first  time.  Now,  do  tell  me  the  news. 
Sit  down,  won't  you?" 

"Thanks."  Her  companion  pulled  forward 
a  chair.  "Afraid  I'm  disturbing  you!  I  just 
heard  this  moment  from  the  manager.  Bishop 
Raymond  is  coming  to-night  with  Lord  Dane- 
borough  and  young  Leslie.  I  caught  sight  of 
Uncle  Peter  at  your  door  just  now,  and  I 
thought  you'd  like  to  know." 

Major-General  Hugh  Mackworth  was  a  tall, 
slight  man,  very  straight  and  soldierly-looking, 
with  an  air  of  distinction  and  smartness  in  spite 
of  rather  carelessly-worn  clothes,  not  uncom- 
mon in  a  certain  type  of  British  cavalry  officer. 
Much  foreign  service  had  burnt  his  thin  face  a 
deep  brown,  but  although  a  little  puckered 
about  the  eyelids,  it  was  singularly  youthful, 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  99 

and  his  dark  hair  and  clipped  moustache  had 
an  almost  juvenile  aspect.  His  expression  was 
unusually  intelligent  and  his  eyes  betrayed  a 
sense  of  humour  which  was  reported  to  be 
viewed  at  times  with  some  suspicion  by  his 
seniors.  But  there  were  traces  of  stern,  even 
grim  lines  about  his  mouth,  and  the  glance  of  his 
grey  pupils  was  quick  and  keen.  At  the  mo- 
ment he  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  being  the 
youngest  officer  of  his  rank  in  the  army,  hav- 
ing been  promoted  a  few  weeks  previously  on 
his  return  from  North  Africa,  where  he  had 
earned  a  reputation  as  a  brilliant  organiser  and 
leader  of  native  cavalry. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  rejoined  Mabel,  when 
he  had  finished.  "It  was  awfully  good  of  you 
to  come  and  tell  me.  Cousin  St.  John  and  I 
used  to  be  great  friends.  You  know  him,  don't 
you,  Cousin  Grace?"  she  added,  turning  to  the 
older  lady  who  was  engaged  just  then  in  num- 
bering her  stitches  aloud. 

Lady  Grace  finished  her  counting  before  she 
replied.  "I  haven't  seen  him  for  years.  He 
used  to  be  fearfully  straightlaced  and  'high.'  I 
never  could  get  on  with  him.  These  Raymonds 
are  all  queer;  they're  either  prigs  or  boors." 

"I  hope  you  enjoy  having  your  relatives  cata- 


100  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

logued,  Mrs.  Arbuthnot,"  remarked  General 
Mackworth,  smiling. 

"Well,  they're  relations  of  mine,  too,  if  it 
comes  to  that,"  retorted  Lady  Grace.  "Most 
people  I  know  are.  That  doesn't  prevent  one 
telling  the  truth  about  them,  does  it?" 

"In  what  the  poet  calls  'The  Stately  Homes 
of  England,'  I  should  say  never,  Aunt  Grace." 

"I  should  hope  not!  What's  more,  I  hear 
Gerald  Daneborough  who's  coming  to-night,  is 
just  the  same  as  the  rest  of  them,"  continued 
Lady  Grace. 

"Do  you  mean  the  same  old  bishop  or  the 
same  old  boor?"  enquired  her  nephew. 

"They  say  he's  the  image  of  his  uncle,  Henry 
Daneborough,  who  was  killed  a  few  weeks 
ago,"  declared  the  other.  "I'll  say  no  more!" 
she  added  meaningly. 

"If  you  mean  that  Gerald  is  a  boor,  Cousin 
Grace,"  exclaimed  Mabel,  half -smiling,  half- 
annoyed,  "you  are  really  wrong.  I've  known 
him  all  my  life.  He  was  fond  of  horses,  and  he 
didn't  care  much  for  society,  but— 

"Exactly — I  know  that  type  of  Raymond!" 
put  in  the  elder  lady. 

"But  you  don't  know  Gerald,  Cousin  Grace, 
and  I  do!" 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  101 

"You  haven't  seen  him  for — how  many 
years  ?"  enquired  the  other. 

"Eight." 

Lady  Grace  shook  her  knitting  over  her  lap. 
"Just  before  you  married?  Well,  you  wait  and 
see!  He's  been  eight  years  in  the  ranks  since 
then — not  even  in  the  army,  but  in  some  dis- 
reputable colonial  police  force.  If  that  hasn't 
made  a  pretty  rough  diamond  of  him,  I  shall 
be  much  mistaken!" 

Mabel  flushed  slightly,  but  made  no  reply. 
General  Mackworth  rose  with  a  smile  and  re- 
placed his  chair  by  the  writing  table.  "You 
cut  him,  Aunt  Grace,"  he  remarked,  "perhaps 
that  will  make  a  gem  of  him." 

Lady  Grace  regarded  the  speaker  disapprov- 
ingly. "You  seem  to  forget  he's  succeeded, 
Hugh,"  she  said.  "I  don't  suppose  he  has  done 
anything  absolutely  disgraceful!" 

Her  nephew  laughed  and  turned  to  Mabel. 
"Good-night,  Mrs.  Arbuthnot,"  he  said,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand. 

"I  say,  Hugh,  come  and  look  at  the  gun- 
boat!" Sir  Peter  popped  his  head  through  the 
French  window.  "She's  drawn  something — 
I'll  take  my  oath!"  He  disappeared  excitedly. 

"Peter's  crazy  about  that  boat!"  exclaimed 
Lady  Grace.  "One  would  think  he  had  never 


102  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

seen  a  searchlight  in  his  life  before!  He  broke 
a  water  bottle  and  a  tumbler  in  my  room  last 
night  waving  his  arms  about  to  show  me  what 
it  had  been  doing  while  I  was  saying  my  pray- 
ers." 

As  she  spoke,  Sir  Peter  projected  an  arm 
into  the  room,  slanting  it  rigidly  at  a  point  ap- 
parently beneath  the  sofa.  "They're  dead  on 
something!"  he  exclaimed.  "They'll  be  lower- 
ing a  boat  in  a  minute.  Come  on,  Hugh!" 

"May  I?"  enquired  Mackworth,  turning  to 
Mabel. 

"Yes,  do,"  rejoined  the  latter,  smiling.  "Tell 
us  if  it  is  anything  exciting." 

The  gunboat  which  patrolled  the  upper 
reaches  of  Lake  Como  was  a  source  of  endless 
interest  not  only  to  Sir  Peter,  but  to  most  of 
the  guests  at  the  Hotel  Regina.  Commissioned 
by  the  Italian  Custom's  Department  to  check 
smuggling  from  the  Swiss  frontier  above 
Menaggio,  it  could  be  seen  every  night,  as  dark- 
ness fell,  creeping  over  the  open  water  at  the 
junction  of  the  Como,  Lecco  and  Colico  arms; 
and,  until  dawn,  the  restless,  slanting  beam  of 
its  searchlight  swept  the  mountains,  shores  and 
sleeping  villages.  The  visitors  to  that  part  of 
the  lake  came  to  regard  the  odd-shaped,  black 
craft  with  its  blinding  eye,  as  a  more  essential 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  103 

feature  of  the  night  than  the  moon  or  the  stars ; 
storm  or  fine  its  ray  fell  everywhere — spark- 
ling one  moment  on  the  naked  hill-tops,  then, 
with  a  vertiginous  flash,  searching  out  the  dark- 
ness of  walled  gardens  and  vine-covered  per- 
golas by  the  water-front;  flitting  over  terraces 
where  people  sat  at  dinner,  and  penetrating 
with  a  flood  of  silent  brilliance  the  open  win- 
dows of  their  bedrooms.  Now  and  then,  in  its 
apparently  aimless  movements,  the  beam  would 
pause  with  a  jerk,  transform  some  remote  farm 
or  osteria  by  the  shore  into  a  shining  fairy  pa- 
vilion, creep  watchfully  to  and  fro  by  the  land- 
ing-place, and,  with  a  pounce,  expose  a  tiny 
boat,  rowing  swiftly  over  the  black  waters.  The 
news  would  then  run  along  the  hotel  terraces 
that  a  smuggler  had  been  sighted,  and  heads 
would  be  thrust  over  the  balustrades  and  out  of 
windows.  But  these  activities  of  the  search- 
light were  apt  to  be  as  mysterious  as  the  rest 
of  its  behaviour;  and  after  a  few  seconds,  dur- 
ing which  the  suspicious  craft  lay  like  a  dazzled 
insect  in  the  circle  of  light,  the  beam  would  flash 
off  elsewhere. 

"I  wonder  if  they  ever  catch  anybody,"  re- 
marked Mabel,  glancing  over  her  cushions  to- 
wards the  loggia.  Her  movement  dislodged  the 
writing  case  which  she  had  lifted  off  the  bed 


104  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

when  her  visitors  entered,  and  had  placed  on  the 
end  of  the  sofa ;  it  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  crash. 

"I'll  get  it,  dear,  don't  move,"  said  Lady 
Grace,  as  Mabel  turned  hastily.  "Here  it  is." 
Clasping  her  knitting,  the  old  lady  picked  up 
the  case  and,  half  rising  from  her  chair,  handled 
it  to  her  cousin.  As  she  did  so,  the  photograph 
which  Mabel  had  slipped  inside  the  cover,  ear- 
lier in  the  evening,  dropped  out.  "Something's 
fallen!"  ejaculated  Lady  Grace;  stooping  again 
she  picked  up  the  photograph  and  held  it  out, 
glancing  casually  at  it,  as  she  did  so. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  said  Mabel.  "That  is 
Gerald,"  she  added,  after  a  momentary  pause. 
"It  was  done  just  before  he  went  to  the  Cape. 
I  found  it  among  some  papers  to-night.  It  was 
very  good  of  him  at  the  time,  I  think.  Did  you 
ever  see  him?"  She  handed  the  photograph 
back  to  the  older  lady. 

The  latter  looked  up  sharply  and,  dropping 
her  knitting,  took  the  picture.  She  stared  at 
it,  then  returned  it  to  her  cousin.  "No,  I  may 
have  seen  him  when  he  was  a  child.  I  don't  re- 
member. He  is  quite  nice-looking,"  she  added. 

Mabel  made  no  response.  She  replaced  the 
photograph  within  the  writing-pad,  and,  after 
a  short  pause,  put  her  feet  to  the  ground  and 
rose.  Laying  the  case  on  the  writing-table  as 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  105 

she  passed,  she  crossed  to  a  long  mirror  at  the 
other  side  of  the  room,  before  which  she  halted, 
tidying  her  hair  and  shaking  out  the  folds  of 
her  gown. 

Lady  Grace  glanced  up  as  though  about  to 
speak,  but  apparently  thinking  better  of  it,  re- 
turned to  her  work  with  a  somewhat  pronounced 
clicking  of  her  needles. 

Mabel  after  a  final  pat  to  her  hair,  strolled 
to  the  window,  and  stepped  on  to  the  loggia. 

"Well,  did  they  catch  anybody?" 

"No."  Sir  Peter  wagged  his  head  disap- 
pointedly. "Another  blank.  Storm  coming," 
he  added  after  a  pause,  leaning  over  the  balus- 
trade and  staring  down  the  moon-lit  lake  to- 
wards Lecco. 

"Do  you  think  so?  There  are  no  clouds 
about." 

"Hot  as  blazes,"  replied  Sir  Peter,  flicking 
his  handkerchief.  "Thunder  about." 

"It  is  hot."  Mabel  leaned  her  bare  elbows  on 
the  stone  balustrade  and  gazed  up  at  the  pale 
depths  of  the  sky.  "Have  they  all  got  rooms, 
General  Mackworth?"  she  enquired. 

"I  think  so,"  replied  the  general,  moving  for- 
ward, and  leaning  on  the  coping  beside  her. 
"The  hotel  is  pretty  full,  and  some  other  people 
are  coming  to-night.  The  manager  said  he 


106  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

might  have  to  put  some  one  next  door  to  you 
here,"  he  added,  nodding  along  the  loggia  be- 
hind him. 

Mabel  turned.  "Oh,  that  is  impossible!"  she 
exclaimed.  "That's  Dr.  Florio's  laboratory, 
and  the  manager  said  distinctly  when  I  took  this 
room  that  I  should  have  the  loggia  to  myself. 
I  always  sleep  with  my  windows  wide  open,  and 
I  couldn't  stand  having  anybody  next  door  at 
night.  I'd  better  ring  and  see  about  it  at  once !" 
She  hastened  into  the  room  and  crossed  towards 
the  bell  by  the  bed. 

"What  is  it,  Mabel?"  enquired  Lady  Grace, 
looking  up. 

Her  cousin  explained.  "It's  most  annoying. 
If  they  do  put  some  one  in  there,  I  must  move 
into  my  sitting-room.  It  isn't  nearly  so  nice, 
and  there's  no  balcony,  but  at  any  rate  I  should 
be  private." 

"Don't  bother,  dear,"  responded  the  other. 
"Peter  will  see  about  it  when  he  goes  down- 
stairs. That's  far  better  than  ringing." 

"I  don't  expect  you'll  be  disturbed,"  said 
Mack  worth,  stepping  into  the  room,  and  hold- 
ing out  his  hand  to  Mabel,  who  was  standing 
irresolutely  by  the  bell.  "There's  no  sign  of 
them  preparing  the  other  room — I've  just  been 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  107 

reconnoitring.  Good-night.  Would  you  like 
me  to  do  anything  to  make  sure?"  he  added. 

"Peter  will  see  about  it,"  interrupted  Lady 
Grace.  "He's  going  to  pay  his  bill  to-night." 

"So  don't  trouble,"  said  Mabel,  taking  Mack- 
worth's  hand.  "I'm  sure  Gousin  Peter  will  be 
able  to  attend  to  it.  Good-night!  Thanks  so 
much  for  coming  to  tell  me  about  Bishop  Ray- 
mond." 

The  general  bowed.  Mabel,  giving  him  a 
friendly  smile,  turned  and  stepped  again  on  to 
the  loggia.  "Is  the  window  next  door  closed?" 
she  asked  Sir  Peter.  "Let  us  go  and  explore." 

Mackworth  walked  to  the  chair  where  his 
aunt  was  sitting  and,  bending  down,  kissed  her 
on  the  forehead.  "Good-night,  Aunt  Grace," 
he  said. 

The  old  lady  dropped  her  knitting  and 
caught  him  by  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  "Hugh,  do, 
do  something!"  she  said  urgently. 

"Look  out,  Aunt!"  expostulated  the  general, 
trying  to  free  himself.  "You're  squashing  my 
shirt-front — it's  got  to  last  to-morrow  night!" 

"You'll  lose  her,  Hugh!"  exclaimed  Lady 
Grace,  disregarding  him  and  glancing  agi- 
tatedly towards  the  window.  "You'll  spoil 
everything  if  you  don't  take  care !  Why  don't 
you  ask  her,  and  have  done  with  it  ?  She  knows 


108  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

you're  in  love  with  her — any  one  with  eyes  in 

their  head  could  see  that And  she  likes 

you — I'm  sure  of  that.  But  I'm  worried  about 
her,  Hugh!  She's  changed  lately — I'm  always 
terrified  of  that  romantic  side  of  her  coming 
up,  and  I  don't  feel  sure  about — something  to- 
night. Why  won't  you  tell  me " 

"The  secrets  of  a  young  man's  heart,  my  dear 
Aunt—  began  the  general,  disengaging 
himself.  "Oh,  by  Jove,  so  sorry!"  he  exclaimed, 
bowing  apologetically  to  Mabel,  who  had  en- 
tered from  the  loggia  with  Sir  Peter.  "I'm  just 
going.  Aunt  Grace  has  been  giving  me  a  wig- 
ging. Good-night." 

"Expect  we  ought  to  be  goin',  too,  Grace," 
remarked  Sir  Peter  as  his  nephew  left  the  room. 

Lady  Grace  glanced  at  her  watch.  "My 
dear,  it's  past  ten!  You  should  have  been  in 
bed  long  ago,"  she  said  to  Mabel,  beginning  to 
fold  her  knitting.  "Miss  Coxon  will  be  coming 
to  turn  us  out." 

"Let's  bolt!"  exclaimed  Sir  Peter,  moving 
hurriedly  to  the  door. 

"Please,  don't,"  remonstrated  Mabel.  "Why 
are  you  so  frightened  of  nurse,  Cousin  Peter?" 

Sir  Peter  felt  for  the  handle.  "Don't  know. 
Am,"  he  said  over  his  shoulder.  "Night,  Ma- 
bel. Coming,  Grace?" 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  109 

"So  am  I,  rather."  Lady  Grace  stuffed  her 
knitting  inside  its  bag. 

"I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  be,"  exclaimed  Ma- 
bel. "It's  quite  bad  enough  me  being  afraid 
of  her!  I  don't  quite  know  what  to  do  about  it. 
She  was  splendid  when  I  was  really  ill,  but  I 
do  find  her  trying  now." 

As  she  spoke,  a  sharp  knock  sounded  on  the 
door,  within  an  inch  of  Sir  Peter's  ear.  "Good 
God!"  cried  the  baronet,  "I'm  off!  Night." 
Turning  the  handle,  he  drew  the  door  fully 
open,  keeping  well  behind  it,  and,  as  the  new- 
comer entered,  he  skipped  past  her  back,  into 
the  passage. 

Mabel  crossed  to  her  bed,  and  lay  down. 

"Good-evening,  Nurse,"  said  Lady  Grace, 
preparing  to  rise. 

"Good-evening,"  responded  the  newcomer, 
moving  forward  to  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Nurse 
Coxon  was  a  tall  young  woman  of  about  twen- 
ty-six, with  a  fine  figure,  a  striking  mass  of 
coarse,  auburn  hair,  a  cream-coloured  complex- 
ion and  handsome  eyes,  rather  like  large  brown 
beads.  She  was  not  in  "uniform,"  and  wore  a 
pale-blue  silk  blouse  and  a  dark  skirt. 

"Please  don't  go,  Cousin  Grace,"  said  Mabel. 

Nurse  Coxon  glanced  at  the  watch  on  her 


110  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

wrist.  "It's  after  ten.  I  think  we  should  be 
putting-  you  to  bed,  Mrs.  Arbuthnot." 

Mabel  smiled.  "I  am  feeling  very  well  to- 
night, Nurse — not  a  bit  sleepy.  If  you'll  just 
give  me  my  medicine  I  shall  be  all  right." 

"Dr.  Florio  particularly  wants  you  to  go  to 
bed  early,  Mrs.  Arbuthnot,"  responded  the 
nurse,  stiffly. 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  go,  dear,"  interjected 
Lady  Grace. 

"No,  please,  I  do  wish  to  speak  to  youl" 
exclaimed  Mabel.  "Thomson  can  put  me  to 
bed,  Nurse,"  she  continued.  "I  am  really  feel- 
ing better  to-night.  I'm  sure  you  would  like  to 
go  to  bed  early  yourself  for  once.  I'll  explain 
to  Dr.  Florio  to-morrow." 

"It's  of  no  importance  when  Z  go  to  bed.  Dr. 
Florio's  orders  are— 

"But  Thomson- 

"Your  maid  is  not  well,"  interrupted  the 
other,  "she  has  gone  to  bed." 

"Then  I  shall  manage  by  myself,"  said  Ma- 
bel, turning  to  her  cousin. 

Nurse  Coxon's  yellow-brown  pupils  seemed 
to  protrude  slightly.  "Dr.  Florio  will  be  very 
angry,  Mrs.  Arbuthnot— 

"Nurse!"  Mabel  looked  up  quickly.  "Please" 
— she  motioned  towards  the  door. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  HI 

"Oh,  very  well!"  replied  the  other.  Turning 
on  her  heel,  she  walked  across  the  room  and 
went  behind  a  screen  which  stood  before  the 
washstand;  a  moment  later  she  appeared  with 
some  medicine  in  a  glass,  which  she  carried  in 
silence  to  the  small  table  by  the  bed.  Then, 
brushing  past  Lady  Grace,  she  crossed  to  the 
French  window. 

"You  can  leave  it  open,  Nurse,"  said  Mabel. 
Nurse  Coxon  dropped  the  curtain  back  in  its 
place  with  a  swish,  and,  looking  straight  in 
front  of  her,  marched  to  the  door. 

"Good-night,"  said  Mabel. 

"Good-night,  Nurse,"  ejaculated  Lady 
Grace. 

""Good-night."  Nurse  Coxon  left  the  room, 
closing  the  door  behind  her. 

Lady  Grace,  after  listening  a  moment, 
turned  to  her  cousin.  "My  dear,"  she  said,  with 
some  anxiety  in  her  voice.  "This  is  not  like  you! 
Is  it  wise?" 

Mabel  lay  back  and  half-closed  her  eyes.  "I 
don't  know — yes,  it's  all  right.  I  can  easily  put 
myself  to  bed  for  once."  She  glanced  up  with 
a  faint  flush.  "Nurse  Coxon  mustn't  order  me 
about  so  much!  I  felt  I  just  couldn't  stand  her 
to-night,  somehow.  Don't  let's  talk  about  it 
any  more." 


112  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Mabel,  are  you  sure  you  are  feeling  quite 
well?"  enquired  the  older  lady,  after  a  pause, 
concern  and  some  little  disapproval  showing  in 
her  face. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  think  so,"  responded  the  other, 
turning  away.  "I  think  I'm  very  well,"  she 
added,  staring  into  the  darkness.  "I  just  feel 
a  little  strange.  Perhaps  it  is  the  warm  weather 
beginning.  We  are  going  to  have  a  storm  to- 
night. Do  you  feel  how  hot  it  is  ?— and  the  sky 
is  all  overcast.  It's  only  that."  She  pulled 
open  the  neck  of  her  dressing-gown.  "I've  been 
irritable  and  silly,  and  that  always  upsets  me. 
I  shall  be  all  right  if  I  just  lie  quiet  for  a  little." 

"Very  well,  dear,  as  you  please,"  rejoined 
Lady  Grace,  "I  hope  you  will  not  be  the  worse 
for  it  in  the  morning.  I  must  go  to  bed;  it's 
getting  quite  late.  Can  I  help  you?" 

Mabel  turned.  "No,  thank  you,  dear,"  she 
replied.  "I  do  hate  losing  my  temper,"  she 
added  suddenly,  looking  up. 

Lady  Grace  bent  and  kissed  her.  "I  never 
do,"  she  remarked  promptly. 

Mabel  laughed  as  she  passed  her  arm  round 
the  other's  neck.  "Not  even  with  Cousin 
Peter?" 

"Oh  no,  dear,"  rejoined  the  old  lady,  disen- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  113 

gaging  herself.  "He's  far  too  silly  to  get 
angry  with!  Good-night,  dear." 

"Good-night,  Cousin  Grace,"  responded  Ma- 
bel. "Will  you  put  out  the  light,  please?"  she 
added,  as  her  cousin  reached  the  door.  "It 
shines  straight  in  my  eyes." 

Lady  Grace  turned  the  switch  beside  her,  and 
with  another,  "good-night,"  left  the  room,  clos- 
ing the  door  softly  behind  her. 


CHAPTER   VII 

MABEL  gave  a  faint  sigh  of  relief.  With 
half-closed  eyes  she  sank  back  on  her  pillow, 
gratefully  aware  of  the  sudden  quiet  and  semi- 
obscurity  of  the  room.  The  society  of  her  vis- 
itors, coming  at  the  end  of  a  long  day,  had  been 
fatiguing,  and  the  scene  with  Nurse  Coxon, 
trifling  though  it  was,  had  agitated  her  over- 
tired nerves.  For  some  seconds  she  lay  motion- 
less, her  lids  closed,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  lips 
apart,  conscious  only  of  the  thudding  of  her 
pulses  and  of  the  shrill  crescendo  of  the  crickets 
rising  in  the  night  outside. 

Suddenly  she  stirred ;  pulling  the  laces  of  her 
gown  further  from  her  neck,  she  rose  and  went 
to  the  window.  The  terraces  below  were  shin- 
ing and  silent  beneath  the  enchantment  of  the 
moon.  Across  the  sleeping  lake  lay  a  radiant 
path,  and  the  tops  of  the  shadowed  mountains 
shone  against  the  incorruptible  depths  of  the 
sky.  Her  chair  still  stood  by  the  balustrade. 
She  turned  and,  after  extinguishing  the  lamp 
by  her  bed,  stepped  on  the  loggia  and  sank 
down  on  the  cushions. 

114 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  115 

Mabel  had  married  shortly  after  her  twenti- 
eth birthday,  with  all  the  charm  and  all  the  im- 
perfections of  her  healthy  British  upbringing 
fresh  upon  her.  It  was  indicative  of  the  impres- 
sion she  made  upon  her  world  that,  on  the  whole, 
people  were  surprised  at  the  match.  Jack  Ar- 
buthnot  was  two  years  her  senior,  one  of  the 
most  popular  young  men  in  London  Society,  a 
brilliant  sportsman,  rich,  and  unusually  hand- 
some. Yet,  when  Mabel  announced  the  engage- 
ment, her  intimate  friends,  at  least,  were  con- 
scious of  being  vaguely  disappointed.  The 
truth  was  that  she  produced  the  impression  of 
being  more  complex,  and  from  a  matrimonial 
point  of  view,  more  unapproachable,  than  she 
really  was.  Her  upbringing  and  her  tempera- 
ment were  alike  responsible  for  this.  In  spite 
of  the  charm  and  sympathy  of  her  manner,  to 
which  she  owed  much  of  her  popularity,  she  was 
reticent  both  at  heart  and  by  force  of  habit.  As 
a  child  she  had  seldom  asked  questions:  such 
problems  as  seemed  to  her  important  she  had 
turned  over  endlessly  in  her  brain,  placing  every 
likely  book  under  the  contribution  of  a  labori- 
ous research:  those  issues  she  judged  unessen- 
tial she  had  put  aside,  believing  that  their  solu- 
tion would  come  in  due  course.  Until  her  win- 
ter in  Italy,  all  thoughts  of  love,  in  so  far  as 


116  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

they  might  concern  herself,  had  figured  in  this 
latter  category;  and  when,  almost  unawares, 
they  slipped  into  the  former,  it  was  to  wander 
amid  the  dreams  of  poetry  and  romance  with 
which  her  mind  was  always  full,  under  a  like 
spell  of  silence.  This  had  the  effect  of  setting 
a  bar  across  certain  lines  of  intimacy  with  her 
own  sex,  while  a  frank  good-fellowship  of  man- 
ner, coupled  perhaps  with  a  reputation  she  had 
acquired  for  literary  and  artistic  proclivities, 
kept  the  average  youth  of  her  world  somewhat 
at  a  distance.  Then  too,  she  was  an  heiress,  and 
not  a  few  of  the  men  she  liked  and  to  whom  she 
gave  her  friendship,  were  diffident  of  offering 
themselves  as  her  suitors. 

To  Jack  Arbuthnot,  however,  this  aspect  of 
the  matter  was  simplified;  he  was  an  admirable 
parti  from  every  point  of  view.  So  he  made 
love  gallantly  and  whole-heartedly,  and  Mabel, 
who  admired  and  liked  him,  and  who  had 
reached  the  stage  of  wondering  whether  her 
heart  was  ever  to  be  touched  at  all,  allowed  her- 
self, more  or  less  consciously,  to  slip  under  the 
spell  of  his  devotion,  of  his  accomplishments 
and  of  his  charming  personality,  and  ended  by 
falling  as  much  in  love  with  him  as  her  pro- 
found ignorance  of  the  essential  meaning  of 
the  word  permitted.  Of  the  eternal  motive 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  117 

which  lies  at  the  heart  of  passion,  of  the  emo- 
tions which  are  alike  at  the  root  and  in  the  flow- 
ers of  the  tree  of  life  she  knew  nothing. 

To  all  outward  seeming  it  was  a  marriage 
like  any  other.  With  their  good  looks,  their 
popularity  and  their  wealth,  the  last  sentiment 
which  the  world  might  expect  to  be  asked  to  feel 
for  them  would  be  that  of  pity.  Yet  they  were 
profoundly  to  be  pitied. 

The  inner  sanctuary  in  the  soul  of  an  English 
girl  of  Mabel's  upbringing  and  temperament  is 
an  edifice  so  delicate  that  it  could  stand  secure 
only  in  some  enchanted  valley  beyond  the  realm 
of  nature.  There  is  no  analogy  in  our  world  to 
this  fragile  temple  to  the  god  of  things  as  they 
are  not.  And  when  the  uncomprehended 
formulas  of  the  marriage  service  are  uttered, 
the  familiar  guards  of  family  and  society  with- 
drawn, the  threshold  invaded,  and  the  veil,  be- 
hind which  all  has  been  mystery,  rent  asunder, 
small  wonder  if  the  shrine  be  filled  with  her 
cries  of  "Sacrilege!  Sacrilege!"  Much,  at 
such  a  moment,  must  depend  on  the  wisdom  and 
experience  of  the  man;  much  on  the  nature  of 
the  reserves  which  the  crisis  calls  up  in  the  girl. 
In  the  case  of  Jack  Arbuthnot,  the  irony  was, 
that  the  very  qualities  which  had  instinctively 
attracted  Mabel  to  him  were  to  be,  in  part,  at 


118  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

least,  the  undoing  of  them  both.  In  spite  of  the 
allurements  of  his  life  he  had  been  fastidious 
and  constant,  on  the  whole,  to  ideals  and  princi- 
ples inculcated  by  a  high-minded,  puritan  fa- 
ther: and  now  he  was  desperately  in  love.  But 
inexperience  and  impatience  on  one  side  should 
not  ruin  two  lives,  if  there  be  not  a  grave  de- 
fect in  point  of  view  on  the  other.  Mabel  was 
a  gentle,  unassuming  girl,  diffident  of  judging 
between  right  and  wrong,  but  she  had  been 
brought  up  to  believe  that  any  woman  can  dis- 
tinguish infallibly  those  things  in  this  world 
which  are  "nice"  from  those  which  are  not. 
Now  the  laws  under  which  creation  travails  do 
manifest  themselves  at  times  within  even  the 
most  strictly  brought-up  young  people's  hori- 
zon, and  it  was  wholly  inevitable  that  a  sensi- 
tive, reticent  girl,  isolated  by  circumstances 
from  companions  of  her  own  age,  and  kept  pro- 
foundly ignorant  of  the  genesis  of  life  around 
her,  should  shrink  repelled  from  every  such  indi- 
cation of  the  facts  of  nature  which  forced  itself 
upon  her  notice.  It  was  not  a  puritanical  atti- 
tude :  the  problem  of  sex  was  but  a  name  to  her, 
conveying  nothing  save  a  dislike  of  all  expres- 
sions of  the  kind,  and  a  vague  conviction  that 
they  stood  for  something  indelicate  and  un- 
pleasant. Her  repulsions  were  so  interwoven 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  119 

with  her  environment  as  to  be  instinctive,  and 
it  never  occurred  to  her  to  question  the  correct- 
ness or  the  justice  of  her  standpoint.  So,  al- 
though she  lacked  neither  common-sense  nor 
courage,  and  tried,  in  the  first  days  of  her  wed- 
ded life,  with  an  almost  pathetic  resolution,  to 
rearrange  her  ideas  in  accordance  with  what  she 
realized  were  the  usages  of  marriage,  those  emo- 
tions which  might  have  responded  to  the  mo- 
ment had  been  stunned  by  too  rude  an  awaken- 
ing, and,  failing  to  divest  herself  of  her  re- 
pugnance to  the  demands  made  upon  her,  she 
slipped  into  a  tacit  but  none  the  less  perilous 
attitude,  of  crediting  herself  with  a  superior 
delicacy,  in  essential  matters,  to  her  husband. 

This  first  puzzled,  then  seriously  angered 
Arbuthnot.  It  was  much  more  apparent  in 
their  intimate  relations  than  Mabel  guessed,  and 
the  fact  that  he  was  fully  conscious  of  the  re- 
straints he  had  imposed  on  himself  for  the  sake 
of  the  very  ideals  in  which  his  wife  now  ap- 
peared to  find  him  deficient,  made  the  situation 
doubly  trying  for  him.  Needless  to  say,  he 
too,  had  had  his  shock,  which,  with  the  irritation 
caused  by  Mabel's  attitude,  produced  an  un- 
fortunate impression,  deleterious  to  a  not  very 
strong  character.  Realizing,  as  he  did,  that  he 
had  not  been  over-patient  or  wise,  he  blamed, 


120  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

with  something  of  a  sneer,  a  continency  which 
had  put  him  at  a  disadvantage  in  matrimony. 
With  his  virtues  apparently  at  a  discount,  some 
less  admirable  qualities  in  his  disposition  began 
to  push  forward.  He  had  been  spoiled  by  his 
mother  and  by  society,  and  though  his  temper 
was  sweet  enough,  it  was  not  of  that  grain 
which  can  bear  being  thwarted  without  knowing 
the  temptation  to  retaliate.  So,  when  Mabel, 
aware  that  he  was  disappointed,  and  vaguely 
deploring  her  inability  to  satisfy  his  expecta- 
tions along  one  line,  tried  by  many  little  atten- 
tons  and  sacrifices  to  make  things  up  to  him  in 
other  respects,  the  result  was  to  bring  out  a 
selfishness,  fatal  alike  to  all  that  was  best  in  his 
nature  and  to  the  growth  of  the  comradeship 
which  his  wife  sought  to  make  the  foundation 
of  their  relations.  With  so  popular  a  man  there 
would  have  been  always  a  danger  of  his  drifting 
into  interests  beyond  his  own  hearth,  and,  when 
once  a  relaxation  of  his  youthful  ideals  had  set 
in,  the  absence  of  that  tie  which  alone,  with  one 
of  his  emotional  nature,  could  have  counteracted 
the  temptations  of  the  not  over  straight-laced 
world  around  him,  was  a  serious  matter  for  both 
of  them. 

Needless  to  say,  with  two  people  so  young 
and  of  such  diverse  temperaments,  married  life 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  121 

was  beset  with  many  difficulties — many  disil- 
lusions. Although  both  were  endowed  in  a 
large  degree  with  the  good  qualities  of  their 
race  and  class,  yet  they  had  much  to  contend 
with  in  an  existence  of  leisure  which  made  the 
dissimilarity  of  their  tastes  daily  more  apparent. 
Mabel  had  believed  that  her  husband's  gaiety 
and  kindliness  would  more  than  compensate  for 
his  lack  of  those  interests  which,  she  sometimes 
feared,  exercised  too  sobering  an  influence  on 
her  own  character ;  and  Arbuthnot  had  been  far 
too  much  in  love  to  trouble  himself  in  the  slight- 
est degree  either  about  her  "temperament,"  as 
he  understood  the  word,  or  about  his  own.  But 
their  first  year  together  affected  both  points  of 
view.  Jack  Arbuthnot's  cheeriness  and  even 
his  kindness  were  largely  dependent  upon  the 
strength  of  his  interest  and  affection — a  diffi- 
cult characteristic  in  a  husband  even  under  fa- 
vourable circumstances :  and  Mabel,  with  all  her 
good  points,  was  constitutionally  unsuited  to 
neglect.  Although  preserving  bravely  her 
cheerfulness  before  the  world,  she  began  to  fall 
into  a  state  of  passive  sadness,  which,  notwith- 
standing her  unremitting  sweetness  to  her  hus- 
band, and  her  efforts  to  gain  his  friendship, 
was  fatal  to  the  accomplishment  of  her  pur- 
pose. 


122  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Before  the  third  anniversary  of  their  wed- 
ding the  estrangement  between  them  was  com- 
plete. Gentle  as  Mabel's  temper  was,  her  feel- 
ings had  been  affected  by  her  husband's  be- 
haviour, and  her  pride  wounded  by  the  growth 
of  relations  between  him  and  more  than  one 
other  woman  which  he  had  scarcely  troubled 
to  keep  secret  from  her  and  which  had  already 
awakened  comment  in  their  world.  Then,  quite 
suddenly,  he  died.  She  had  not  accompanied 
him  to  Scotland,  and  when  she  reached  his  side 
his  malady  was  already  too  far  advanced  to 
admit  of  any  explanations  to  pass  between 
them. 

Whether  or  no  death  endows  with  some  clear 
vision  of  the  past  and  future,  him  who  is  enter- 
ing its  portals,  assuredly  it  often  sheds  an  en- 
lightenment terrible  in  its  brilliance,  on  those 
who  are  left  behind.  With  her  husband's  death, 
the  pressure  of  disappointment  and  despair 
which  had  been  numbing  Mabel's  heart  relaxed 
instantly ;  the  apprehensions  that  had  fallen  like 
a  cloud  on  her  brain  dispersed  with  the  realiza- 
tion of  her  loneliness:  all  bitterness  passed 
away,  leaving  only  an  anguish  of  regret  and  of 
self-reproach.  She  forgot  during  those  days 
everything  that  had  been  unkind  in  the  man 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  123 

she   had   married,   and  remembered   only   his 
love.  .  .  . 

It  was  perhaps  fortunate  that  physical  illness 
supervened.  The  mere  demands  on  her  courage 
and  endurance  which  had  to  be  met  if  she  were 
to  live  at  all,  served  in  part  to  break  the  spell 
of  memory.  Her  childish  delicacy  had  never 
quite  left  her  and,  during  the  next  two  years, 
she  became  much  of  an  invalid;  the  fight  for 
life  degenerated  into  a  permanent  skirmish 
with  a  wearisome  malady ;  surrounded  by  nurses, 
and  at  the  mercy  of  all  the  "treatments"  which 
her  circumstances  enabled  the  physicians  to  pre- 
scribe and  her  relations  to  insist  upon,  it  was 
small  wonder  if  her  nature,  sweet  and  unselfish 
as  it  was,  became  for  a  time  self-centred.  When 
in  these  long  months  she  thought  of  the  past, 
it  was  with  intense  sadness  and  an  exaggerated 
self-reproach,  but  she  dared  not  dwell  on  it. 
Her  doctors  warned  her  gravely  against  doing 
so,  and  she  realised  herself  how  heavily  she  paid 
when  she  disregarded  their  orders.  So,  having 
no  longer  any  responsibilities  in  life  save  the 
duty  of  trying  to  get  well,  no  anxieties  but  those 
which  directly  affected  herself,  and,  as  she 
thought,  nothing  but  sadness  to  look  forward 
to,  the  habits,  mental  and  physical,  imposed 


124  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

upon  her  in  the  first  stages  of  her  illness  threat- 
ened to  become  fixed. 

Then,  as  it  were  in  a  day,  her  intellectual  in- 
terests revived.  Her  reading,  as  had  been  its 
habit  in  the  past,  developed  into  study,  and  her 
re-awakened  enthusiasm  for  literature  and  art 
broke  through  the  restrictions  of  invalidism. 
An  improvement  in  her  general  health  was  the 
immediate  result.  She  refused  to  continue  the 
existence  of  the  past  months,  and,  her  thoughts 
turning  with  a  sudden  longing  and  emotion  to 
the  South,  she  gladly  fell  in  with  her  cousin's 
proposal  to  spend  the  spring  in  Italy.  With  the 
first  sign  of  milder  days  she  shut  up  her  Lon- 
don house  and,  in  company  with  Sir  Peter  and 
Lady  Grace,  started  for  the  Lakes. 

The  afternoon  sun  was  shining  over  the  blue 
reaches  of  Como,  when  she  and  her  party  ar- 
rived at  the  little  town  of  steep,  cobbled  streets 
and  green-shuttered  windows  that  lies  midway 
between  Colico  and  Lecco,  and  looks  out  upon 
a  view  which  for  spaciousness  and  delicacy  is 
perhaps  the  loveliest  in  Europe.  The  Hotel 
Regina  stands  in  a  terraced  garden  full  of 
shade  and  the  scent  of  flowers.  No  dusty  road 
lies  between  it  and  the  lake;  from  its  windows 
and  balconies  one  can  look  down,  as  it  were  be- 
tween one's  feet,  and  see  the  fish  steering  to  and 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  125 

fro  in  the  sunlit  water.  Even  on  a  hot  morning 
the  upper  terraces  are  cool  beneath  the  foliage 
of  many  trees ;  and  with  the  blaze  of  early  after- 
noon, the  lake  whitens  and  ruffles  before  the 
"breva"  blowing  fresh  from  Lecco,  the  leaves 
rustle  along  the  walls  and  distant  echoes  awake 
in  the  hotel  behind  of  windows  and  doors  bang- 
ing in  the  high,  south  breeze.  With  the  evening 
hours  a  great  peace  falls  on  the  place.  The 
tinkle  of  the  marble-cutters'  hammers  dies  away 
from  the  beach  by  the  port,  the  wind  drops,  and, 
as  the  glow  of  the  sunset  fades  from  the  moun- 
tain tops  behind  Menaggio,  the  air  softens,  the 
shadows  of  the  garden  are  heavy  with  the  scent 
of  orange  blossom  and  oleanders,  and  full  of 
the  sound  of  lapping  water. 

"Here  I  shall  rest,"  whispered  Mabel  to  her- 
self, as  she  lay  by  her  bedroom  window  on  the 
evening  of  her  arrival,  "until  I  get  quite  strong. 
Then  perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  begin  again." 

Three  weeks  had  passed  since  then.  Long 
days  spent  in  the  garden  where  green  reflections 
from  the  sun-bathed  pool  by  the  lake  wall 
danced  among  the  magnolia  leaves  above  her 
head,  and  only  the  faint  minor  of  the  washer- 
girls'  song  on  the  beach,  came  to  break  the  quiet. 
Moonless  evenings  when,  as  she  lay  in  her  log- 
gia, the  shadowy  expanse  of  water  seemed  to 


126  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

stretch  like  a  soundless  void  amid  the  eternal 
hills.  She  read  and  wrote,  and  was  surprised 
to  find  herself  at  moments  beginning — for  the 
first  time  for  many  months — to  muse  upon  the 
future.  More  often,  however,  she  lay  in  a  bor- 
derland between  waking  and  sleep,  conscious 
only  of  the  delicious  repose  of  the  world  around. 
But  although  in  those  quiet  hours  of  return- 
ing health  her  objective  brain  had,  as  it  were, 
gone  to  rest,  and  she  often  found  difficulty  in 
fixing  her  thoughts  on  the  pages  before  her, 
her  subconsciousness  was  alive  with  a  thousand 
vague  perceptions.  The  obsession  of  the  past, 
under  which  she  had  suffered  so  long,  seemed  to 
have  gone  for  ever:  but  upon  the  soft  haze  of 
her  daydreams  certain  impressions,  stamped  on 
her  mind  by  the  sadness  of  other  days,  and  in- 
distinguishable then  amid  the  gloom,  came  out 
in  the  sunshine  of  the  garden  like  the  shadows 
on  a  photographic  print.  Vaguely  at  first,  and 
then  with  something  of  a  start,  she  saw  that  she 
could  never  allow  herself  to  be  so  unhappy 
again:  that  the  suffering  which  lay  behind  her 
had  not  only  been  almost  unbearable  at  the  time, 
but  had  threatened  to  invade  the  very  founda- 
tions of  her  being.  Whatever  it  might  be  for 
others,  she  realised  instinctively  that  too  great 
misery  had  been  killing  to  all  that  was  best  in 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  127 

her:  that,  although  she  could  be  gentle  and  un- 
complaining in  adversity,  she  had  not  been  her- 
self— and  that  it  was  this  loss  of  the  control  of 
her  own  personality,  through  outside  pressure, 
which  had  frightened  her  as  nothing  else  in  the 
world  could. 

It  was  too  dim  as  yet,  this  realisation,  too 
vague,  to  bring  any  guidance.  But  a  convic- 
tion, forcing  through  the  slumber  of  her  facul- 
ties, warned  her  that  it  is  not  the  incidents  of 
trial  that  are  vital,  but  the  facing  of  them :  that 
to  suffer  bravely  will  not  suffice — for  some 
strains  outlast  both  health  and  nerves,  and  when 
these  are  lost  courage  ceases  to  exist — but  that 
an  armour  of  protection  must  be  donned, 
against  which  the  onsets  of  fate  will  be  turned 
aside. 

For  this,  a  woman  of  Mabel's  temperament 
turns  instinctively  to  religion.  A  high  personal 
faith,  by  transmuting  sorrow  into  a  divine 
means  of  grace,  will,  in  such  natures,  change 
suffering  from  being  a  condition  of  passive 
•  dread  into  one  of  active,  even  joyful,  acquies- 
cence, and  so  rob  destiny  of  all  its  terrors.  But 
Mabel's  upbringing  had  been  adverse  to  the 
growth  of  a  fixed  belief.  The  Calvinistic  tenets 
she  had  imbibed  from  her  first  nurse,  who  had 
hailed  from  beyond  the  Tweed,  had  merely 


128  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

frightened  her  when  she  was  old  enough  to  un- 
derstand them,  and  her  parents'  intermittent  de- 
votional exercises,  having  no  bases,  save  those 
of  habit  and  propriety,  repelled  her  at  an  age 
when  she  might  have  been  deeply  affected  by  in- 
fluences more  transcendental.  Those  were  days 
when  materialism  swayed  the  popular  philo- 
sophic thought  of  her  country,  and,  as  she  grew 
to  wTomanhood,  her  reading  still  further  dis- 
couraged these  mystical  promptings  which,  in 
such  a  spirit  as  hers,  are  the  tendrils  of  the  soul. 
So  the  trials  of  life  had  come  on  her  when  re- 
ligious faith,  though  never  extinguished  from 
the  emotional  side  of  her  nature,  was  too  dim 
to  be  a  ready  or  present  help:  and  as  troubles 
deepened  and  she  failed  to  turn  to  it,  it  receded 
further  from  her  view,  leaving  only  a  sense  of 
uncertainty  and  longing. 

And  now,  in  these  halcyon  weeks  of  re-awak- 
ing physical  strength,  her  first  sensations  were 
those  of  mere  bodily  rejoicing.  Her  whole  be- 
ing seemed  to  unite  in  an  instinctive  resolve  to 
cling  to  happiness  as  the  treasure  of  life,  to  stay 
in  the  sunshine  and  among  the  flowers,  and  to 
call  up  again  the  visions  beautiful  of  her  girl- 
hood. Among  the  shadows  that  still  drifted 
across  her  reveries  lay  the  knowledge  that  her 
youth  was  passing.  Her  thirtieth  birthday  was 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  129 

already  in  sight,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the 
day  must  mark  one  of  the  three  crucial  events 
of  a  woman's  life — of  which  marriage  and 
death  are  the  others.  With  the  sudden  up- 
rushes  of  emotion  which  came  to  her,  unbidden, 
but  strangely  sweet,  in  the  sunlit  and  starlit 
hours  of  those  quiet  weeks,  a  longing  over- 
whelmed her  to  open  her  heart  to  the  joy  and 
beauty  of  the  world  ere  the  summer  of  her  life 
had  gone.  And  a  thousand  promptings,  some 
familiar,  some  new  and  almost  disquietingly 
poignant,  told  her  that  she  had  never  yet  known 
what  life  had  to  give.  .  .  . 

And  now,  as  she  lay  full-length  on  her  chair, 
the  influences  of  the  night  and  of  her  thoughts 
were  strong  upon  her.  Drawing  her  gown  over 
her  bare  shoulders,  she  rose  and  leaned  on  the 
balustrade.  The  heat  had  become  oppressive. 
A  faint  haze  lay  upon  the  lake,  and  the  moon- 
light had  taken  on  a  golden  sheen  beneath  which 
the  rounded  masses  of  the  magnolias  on  the  ter- 
race, rose  in  a  gorgeous,  tropical-like  immobil- 
ity. Amid  a  giant  cypress  near  by,  a  nightin- 
gale fluttered,  twittered,  and  trilled  over  softly 
the  opening  bars  of  his  solo  for  the  night.  Ma- 
bel stood  entranced,  and,  as  silence  fell  again, 
raised  her  white  arms  above  the  cloud  of  her 


130  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

hair,  as  though  to  invoke  the  peace  that  lay  on 
earth  and  sky. 

The  clock  on  the  campanile  of  the  parish 
church  behind  the  hotel  chimed  as  she  entered 
the  French  window  and  switched  on  the  electric 
light  by  her  bed.  She  glanced  at  her  watch,  and 
seeing  that  it  was  eleven  o'clock,  turned  slowly 
towards  the  dressing-table,  her  hands  raised  to 
undo  her  hair.  But  she  was  moved  and  restless 
—inexplicably  touched  by  the  beauty  of  the 
night,  perturbed  by  the  emotions  awake  within 
her.  For  some  seconds  she  lingered  before  the 
glass,  then,  realising  that  if  she  wished  to  sleep 
she  must  compose  her  thoughts  by  some  mental 
occupation,  and  feeling,  moreover,  incapable  for 
the  moment,  of  the  toil  of  undressing,  she  re- 
turned to  the  table  at  her  bedside  and  lifted  a 
book.  The  illustrated  paper  which  Lady  Grace 
had  brought,  fell  to  the  floor;  she  stooped  and, 
picking  it  up,  glanced  idly  at  the  open  page. 
Her  cousin  Gerald's  name  attracted  her  atten- 
tion. Moving  the  lamp  a  little  nearer  she  sank 
down  on  the  top  of  the  bed  and  began  to  read. 

The  sound  of  steps  and  loud  voices  approach- 
ing in  the  passage  outside,  disturbed  her.  The 
door  of  the  next  room  was  thrown  open;  the 
owners  of  the  voices  entered  and  tramped  across 
the  wooden  floor,  while  thumps,  as  of  baggage 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  131 

being  set  down,  shook  the  wall  behind  her  head. 
With  an  exclamation  of  annoyance,  Mabel 
dropped  her  paper  and  reached  towards  the 
electric  bell  hang-ing  beside  the  bed.  At  the 
same  moment  the  window  next-door  was  flung 
open  and  steps  sounded  on  the  stone  flags  of 
the  loggia.  Hurriedly  relinquishing  the  cord 
of  the  bell,  Mabel  turned  out  the  lamp,  plung- 
ing the  room  in  darkness,  save  for  the  faint 
radiance,  at  the  window,  of  the  partially  ob- 
scured moon,  and  a  bright  shaft  of  yellow  light 
which  fell  across  the  balcony  from  the  adjoining 
casement.  Just  as  she  was  about  to  slip  from 
the  bed  to  close  the  window,  a  loud  voice  came 
from  the  loggia,  almost  at  the  threshold  of  her 
room. 

"This  the  only  other  room  you've  got?" 

Mabel  started  and  drew  back. 

"Yes,  milord,"  responded  the  manager's  ac- 
cents, ingratiatingly,  from  next  door. 

"What's  all  that  litter?"  pursued  the  speaker 
on  the  loggia. 

"It  is  ze  room  of  ze  Doctor  Florio.  Zay  can 
be  take  away  at  once,  milord." 

"I'm  not  going  to  wait  for  all  that,"  re- 
sponded the  other.  "Why  the  deuce  didn't  you 
have  our  rooms  ready  for  us?" 

"Ze  second  telegramme  which  say  zat  ze  new 


132  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

gentleman  come,  only  arrive  zis  evening 

"Well,  it's  all  damned  rot!"  interrupted  the 
first  voice.  "Why- 

"Steady,  Daneborough!  There  are  people 
all  round,"  put  in  a  third  voice  quietly.  "I'll 
take  this  room — you  have  the  other.  Leave 

these  things  to-night,  Manager "  the  words 

sounded  fainter  as  the  speaker  turned  towards 
the  next  window.  "You  can  have  them  taken 
away  in  the  morning." 

Mabel  could  catch  the  manager's  "Yes, 
sair";  then  came  a  pause.  "That's  all  right, 
isn't  it,  Daneborough?"  enquired  the  quiet 
voice. 

"Suppose  so,"  grumbled  the  first  arrival. 
"Infernal  damned  nonsense  not  having  our 

— "  the  rest  of  the  remark  was  lost  as  the 
speaker  and  his  companion  entered  the  next 
room.  After  a  confused  murmur  of  conversa- 
tion and  more  moving  of  baggage,  steps 
sounded  again  in  the  hall. 

"Good-night,  Daneborough,"  called  the  quiet 
voice.  A  gruff  "Night"  came  in  response:  a 
door  closed,  and  heavy  steps  receded  along  the 
passage. 

Mabel  held  her  breath  in  the  silence  which 
followed;  then,  glancing  at  the  window,  she 
dropped  her  feet  to  the  floor.  As  she  rose,  a 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  133 

step  sounded  on  the  balcony,  followed  by  a 
scraping  on  the  wall;  blue  smoke  drifted  in  a 
wreath  past  the  sill  and  a  match-end  flamed 
through  the  arch  into  the  darkness.  Almost  be- 
fore Mabel  could  leap  back  to  her  bed,  a  tall 
figure  strolled  across  the  loggia;  leaning  over 
the  balustrade  with  his  back  to  her  window  and 
whistling  softly,  he  gazed  about  him  into  the 
night. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

MABEL  crouched  on  the  top  of  her  bed — 
watching.  The  movements  of  the  intruder  out- 
side her  window  had  the  leisurely  air  of  one  well 
housed  after  a  journey,  and  sleepily  conscious 
of  the  relief  of  finding  himself  alone.  After 
gazing  up  and  down  the  now  sombre  reaches  of 
the  lake,  looking  at  the  sky  and  hanging  over 
the  balustrade,  apparently  to  examine  the  shad- 
ows of  the  garden,  he  paused  in  his  tune,  and, 
yawning  audibly,  stretched  himself  to  his  full 
height.  The  last  operation,  to  Mabel's  exasper- 
ated eyes,  seemed  to  require  an  unconscionable 
share  of  time  and  space.  He  was  exceedingly 
tall,  this  neighbour  of  hers,  and  when  he  threw 
back  his  head  with  elbows  projecting  stiffly 
from  a  pair  of  broad  shoulders,  and  hoisted 
himself  on  his  toes,  he  appeared  to  fill  the  arch 
of  the  loggia,  and  almost  shut  out  the  failing 
moonlight.  Dropping  back  slowly  to  his  heels 
and  lowering  his  arms  with  a  jerk,  he  blew  the 
ash  from  his  cigarette,  puffed  a  cloud  into  the 

134 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  135 

darkness,  and,  with  immense  energy,  hurled  the 
glowing  end  towards  the  lake — leaning  over  the 
railing  till  one  foot  waved  in  the  air,  to  watch 
its  flight  past  the  tree-tops  into  the  water. 

"I  do  wish  he'd  go  to  bed!"  murmured  Ma- 
bel. 

It  seemed  for  a  moment  as  though  she  had 
exerted  a  telepathic  influence  on  the  stranger. 
He  stood  up  slowly,  yawned  again  and,  turn- 
ing towards  the  next  room,  pulled  back  his  cuff 
to  look  at  his  watch.  Any  doubts  Mabel  might 
have  had  of  his  identity  vanished  as  he  moved 
into  the  light  which  streamed  across  the  log- 
gia from  the  adjacent  window.  The  profile 
suddenly  illumined  against  the  darkness  be- 
longed, without  question,  to  the  young  man 
whose  picture  she  had  been  examining  in  the 
Graphic  a  few  minutes  before.  Involuntarily 
she  leaned  forward — with  difficulty  smothering 
a  scream  as  an  excruciating  cramp  seized  the 
foot  on  which  she  had  been  sitting. 

Trooper  Leslie  was  younger  than  she  had  ex- 
pected— that  was  her  first  impression.  His 
clean-cut  features  and  smooth,  tanned  skin  had 
a  very  youthful  look,  accentuated  by  the  wave 
of  his  crisp,  gilt-coloured  hair  and  the  fresh  blue 
of  his  eyes.  As  he  bent  towards  the  light,  his 
wrist  outstretched,  obviously  trying  to  calcu- 


136  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

late  the  hour  by  local  time,  he  made  a  vivid  pic- 
ture against  the  obscurity  beyond.  A  well-cut 
dark  suit  threw  his  colouring  into  bright  relief, 
and,  like  the  black  velvet  of  a  Moroni  portrait, 
emphasised  the  lines  of  a  graceful,  soldier-like 
figure.  Appearing  at  first  view  the  embodi- 
ment of  health  and  activity,  as  he  glanced  up, 
Mabel  noticed  a  strained  expression  about  the 
mouth  and  eyes  wThich  gave  a  delicate,  almost 
haggard,  look  to  his  boyish,  handsome  face. 

The  night  had  become  pitch  dark  and 
stiflingly  hot.  Trooper  Leslie  took  a  handker- 
chief from  his  cuff  and,  wiping  his  forehead, 
moved  towards  his  room.  At  that  moment  a 
sheet  of  lightning  ran  across  the  masses  of 
cloud  above  Belaggio.  Leslie  paused — his 
hand  on  the  balustrade.  A  roll  of  thunder  rum- 
bled among  the  cliffs  opposite,  almost  died 
away  and  then  exploded  with  a  sudden  deafen- 
ing clap  amid  the  blackness  over  the  open  wa- 
ter. A  second  flash  followed  immediately.  For 
a  moment  the  three  arms  of  the  lake  shone 
among  the  mountains  like  liquid  silver  in  a 
mould,  and  the  pall  of  vapour  overhead  glis- 
tened with  the  sheen  of  white,  crumpled  satin. 
Out  of  the  darkness  which  ensued  came  a  sigh 
of  wind,  and  the  plash  of  water  lapping  against 
the  stones  rose  with  sudden  distinctness  from 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  137 

the  shore  below.  Another  crash  pealed  out, 
shaking  the  hotel  and  detonating  to  and  fro 
among  the  mountain  tops;  a  gust  blowing  in 
from  the  loggia  filled  Mabel's  room  with  chilly 
air;  the  curtains  waved  violently  and  the  elec- 
tric bell  rattled  at  the  end  of  its  cord,  against 
the  wall  behind  her  head.  Leaning  forward, 
she  glanced  out  of  the  window;  to  her  relief  the 
young  man  had  disappeared.  As  she  dropped 
her  feet  to  the  floor,  a  dazzling  beam  of  light 
swept  across  the  hotel  facade  and,  pausing  with 
a  jerk,  flooded  the  casement  in  a  soft  radiance. 
Mabel  recoiled  for  a  moment,  then,  realising 
that  it  was  merely  the  searchlight  at  work, 
slipped  off  the  bed.  Before  she  could  reach  the 
window,  Trooper  Leslie,  muttering  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise,  stepped  across  the  loggia  in 
front  of  her  and,  leaning  out  on  the  balustrade, 
gazed  transfixed  at  the  ray  which  poured  over 
the  water  with  a  steady,  white  brilliance,  bewil- 
dering and  theatrical  amid  the  turmoil  of  the 
night.  Apparently  the  gunboat  was  on  the  qui 
Vive;  the  beam  quivered  once  or  twice,  then 
swept  slowly  up  and  down  the  length  of  the  ho- 
tel water-front.  Leslie,  hanging  over  the  cop- 
ing, followed  its  manoeuvres  wits  absorbed  in- 
terest. 

"Now!"  exclaimed  Mabel  to  herself,  moving 


138  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

noiselessly  to  the  window.  Another  squall  of 
wind  blew  the  hangings  in  her  face,  momen- 
tarily obscuring  her  view.  Brushing  them 
aside  she  grasped  the  door  of  the  sash,  then, 
starting  back,  pressed  her  fingers  to  her  eyes. 
A  curtain  of  flame  ran  down  the  sky  envelop- 
ing the  little  promontory  in  a  blaze  of  fire;  she 
saw  the  searchlight's  beam  fade  as  though  dis- 
solving to  fine  dust;  the  clustering  roofs,  the 
tossing  water  and  the  mountain-tops  beyond, 
sprang  out  of  the  darkness  in  a  dizzy,  blinding 
glare. 

With  a  cry,  drowned  by  the  wind  and  a  hur- 
ricane roar  of  rain,  she  leaped  back  to  shelter. 
A  glimpse,  as  the  flash  passed,  showed  her  Les- 
lie upright  by  the  balustrade,  his  palms  clasped 
before  his  eyes;  at  the  same  moment  the  gun- 
boat wheeled  off  its  beam  across  the  lake,  plung- 
ing the  balcony  in  darkness.  In  the  deafening 
peal  which  followed  the  building  trembled  from 
top  to  bottom,  setting  the  window-sashes  rat- 
tling like  those  of  a  street  car  in  motion.  Ma- 
bel, her  fingers  to  her  ears,  glanced  up  invol- 
untarily. She  had  a  vision,  against  some  faint 
brightness  in  the  clouds,  of  her  neighbour,  his 
hands  still  raised  to  his  face,  leaping  through 
the  deluge  across  the  loggia  towards  her.  A 
commotion  on  the  threshold  of  her  room  min- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  139 

gled  with  the  last  boom  of  the  thunder,  the  win- 
dow banged,  an  arm  reached  up  to  the  catch  at 
the  top  of  the  sash.  The  exclamation  which 
flew  to  her  lips  was  lost  in  the  double  crash  of 
the  persienne  shutters  blowing  violently  to- 
gether. Instantly  total  darkness  enveloped  the 
bedroom,  the  tumult  of  the  storm  died  down  as 
by  magic,  leaving  an  oppressive  cavern-like 
quiet. 

The  sound  of  a  chair  being  kicked,  came  from 
near  the  window.  "Hang!"  exclaimed  a  voice. 

"What  are  you  doing?  Who  is  there?"  cried 
Mabel,  sharply. 

A  moment  of  silence  ensued.  "Hey,"  said  a 
voice  in  inexpressibly  startled  tones.  "Is  any 
one  there?" 

"Yes!  You  have  come  into  the  wrong  room!" 
said  Mabel,  breathlessly. 

Another  instant  of  petrified  stillness  followed 
this  announcement.  "Good  Lord!"  exclaimed 
the  voice,  "I'm  most  awfully  sorry!  One  mo- 
ment— — !"  The  chair  was  again  noisily  kicked, 
a  boot  scraped  on  the  floor,  the  sashes  were  flung 
open  and  the  persiennes  shaken  vigorously. 
Then  came  a  lull,  filled  with  heavy  breathing 
and  much  pawing  and  coaxing  of  the  shutter- 
handle.  Outside,  the  storm  was  passing  as 
quickly  as  it  had  risen ;  Mabel  could  see  the  hori- 


140  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

zontal  lines  of  the  persienne  slats  becoming  mo- 
mentarily more  distinct  in  the  returning  moon- 
light ;  against  them,  the  dark  outline  of  her  vis- 
itor swayed  agitatedly. 

"Can  you  open  it?"  she  demanded. 

"One  moment—  — !"  A  vehement  encounter 
with  the  sash  began:  for  some  seconds  it  was 
shaken  as  though  the  intruder  proposed  to  rattle 
it  bodily  out  of  the  frame.  "It's  got  jambed 
somehow,  I'm  afraid,"  he  gasped.  Another 
furious  and  continued  assault  ensued.  "I'm 
most  frightfully  sorry— 

"Leave  it!"  cried  Mabel.  "It's  no  good,  I 
tried  last  night.  Can  you  see  where  the  door 
is?" 

"Yes— I  think  so." 

"Take  care — there  is  a  table  in  the  middle  of 
the  room.  Can  you  see?" 

"Just."  Then  after  a  momentary  pause. 
"Er — perhaps  I'd  better  have  another  shot  at 
the  window— 

"No!"  exclaimed  Mabel,  sharply.  "It's  no 
use!" 

"There  might  be — er — some  one  in  the  hall 
The  intruder's  voice  hesitated,  "It's 
quite  early,  and— 

"Nonsense!  Do  go,  please.  Shall  I  turn  up 
the  light?" 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  141 

"No,  thanks!"  replied  the  voice,  hurriedly. 
"I  can  see."  Uncertain  but  precipitate  foot- 
steps moved  across  the  room;  there  was  a  sud- 
den thud,  a  crash  of  breaking  glass  and  the 
jangle  of  falling  fragments. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  cried  out  Mabel. 

"Nothing,"  mumbled  the  voice.  "Ran  my 
head  against  something — electric  light,  I  think 
— Afraid  I've  smashed  it 

"Never  mind!    Do  go!"    Mabel's  voice  rose. 

"Right  oh!  I'm  frightfuUy  sorry "  An- 
other collision  interrupted  the  apology;  the 
writing-table  jarred  heavily  on  the  parquet  floor 
amid  further  tinkling  and  crunching  of  glass. 

A  knock  sounded  on  the  door.  With  a 
squeak,  the  steps  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
paused,  and  silence  followed,  broken  by  an- 
other and  sharper  rap. 

"Who  is  it?"  caUed  Mabel,  loudly. 

"Me.  Nurse  Coxon!"  The  handle  rattled, 
and  a  chink  of  light  appeared  on  the  wall  near 
the  door.  Mabel,  leaning  forward,  saw  a  tall 
figure  slip  from  the  centre  of  the  room  behind 
the  screen  by  the  washstand. 

"Don't  come  in!"  she  cried.  "I  was  just  fall- 
ing asleep!" 

The  shaft  of  yellow  by  the  far  corner  widened 
perceptibly.  "Is  everything  all  right?"  en- 


142  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

quired  the  voice  in  the  passage.  "I  thought  I 
heard  your  shutters  bang?" 

"They're  all  right,  thanks,"  responded  Mabel. 
"Good-night." 

"Wasn't  something  broken?"  The  door- 
hinges  continued  to  creak.  "I  thought  I  heard 
voices." 

"No,  Nurse!  Everything  is  all  right!  Good- 
night." 

For  a  further  second  the  bright  strip  on  the 
wall  remained  stationary,  then  the  handle 
turned.  "Good-night,"  responded  the  voice;  the 
light  vanished  and  the  door  closed  softly. 

During  the  next  moment  or  two,  complete 
stillness  reigned.  A  door  shut  on  the  other  side 
of  the  passage.  Then  a  click  sounded,  and  the 
room  was  illumined  by  the  larnp  on  the  table  be- 
side the  bed.  Mabel,  withdrawing  a  hand  from 
the  switch,  shook  the  laces  of  her  sleeve  over 
her  bare  arm  and,  with  a  quick  movement,  ar- 
ranged the  folds  of  her  dressing-gown.  Sit- 
ting up  against  the  pillows  she  leaned  forward ; 
her  eyes,  as  she  turned  towards  the  screen  oppo- 
site, were  sparkling  and  her  cheeks  had  flushed. 
She  was  obviously  exceedingly  angry. 

As  she  gazed,  Leslie  appeared,  straightening 
himself  awkwardly;  he  seemed  very  tall  as  he 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  143 

lingered  on  the  outskirts  of  the  lamplight,  his 
face  in  shadow. 

Mabel  looked  up  at  him.  "Why  did  you  do 
that?"  she  demanded  sharply. 

The  other  hesitated.  "Er "  he  began, 

and  stopped. 

"Why  did  you  go  behind  the  screen?" 

The  young  man  stared  at  her  as  though  fasci- 
nated. "I "  he  cleared  his  throat.  "I  was 

afraid — she  might  see  me."  He  nodded  nerv- 
ously towards  the  door. 

"Well,  why  not?    That  was  my  nurse!" 

"Oh."  He  stopped.  "I  thought  it  might 
seem  a  bit " 

"A  bit  what?" 

"Er — a  bit  awkward."  He  cast  a  quick 
glance  at  her. 

"There  would  not  have  been  the  slightest 
awkwardness,"  said  Mabel,  coldly.  "You  had 
no  business  whatever  to  do  that!" 

Her  companion  made  no  response  for  a  mo- 
ment. "I'm  most  frightfully  sorry,"  he  said  at 
length.  "Afraid  I've  made  a  frightful  mess 
of  things !"  He  moved  slowly  towards  the  door. 

"Wait!"  Mabel,  leaning  forward,  glanced 
irresolutely  at  the  door  and  then  towards  the 
window.  "Try  the  shutters  again,  now  we  have 
some  light." 


144  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

The  other,  turning  obediently,  stepped  out 
of  the  shadow,  into  the  lamplight. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  exclaimed  Mabel. 
"Have  you  hurt  yourself?" 

"I  gave  my  head  a  bit  of  a  smash  when  I 
broke  your  lamp,"  replied  her  companion,  go- 
ing to  the  window.  "It's  nothing." 

"But  it's  bleeding!"  Mabel  moved  quickly 
as  though  about  to  rise. 

The  other  put  a  hand  to  his  head.  "So  it  is. 
Never  mind."  Pulling  a  handkerchief  from 
his  sleeve  he  dabbed  a  cut  above  his  forehead 
once  or  twice,  then  grasped  the  handle  of  the 
shutter. 

Mabel  slipped  off  the  bed.  "Let  me  help 
you!" 

Leslie,  relinquishing  the  handle  to  her,  at- 
tempted to  force  the  sash,  first  at  the  bottom, 
then  at  the  top,  and,  finally,  using  hands  and 
feet,  at  both  points  together.  With  his  exer- 
tions the  blood  from  the  cut  streamed  down  his 
forehead  and  into  his  eyes,  causing  him  to  with- 
draw one  hand  and  wipe  his  brow. 

"Afraid  it's  no  good!"  he  ejaculated,  hold- 
ing the  handkerchief  to  his  head.  "I  must  go 
the  other  way." 

"Try  once  more!"  gasped  Mabel,  wrenching 
at  the  handle  with  both  hands. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  145 

Leslie  threw  himself  against  the  shutter;  the 
wood  bent  before  his  weight,  the  moonlight 
showed  momentarily  through  long  slits  at  the 
juncture  of  the  door-leaves,  and  the  hinges 
creaked  shrilly. 

"Take  care!"  exclaimed  Mabel,  afraid  lest 
the  whole  frame  was  about  to  be  burst  bodily 
outward. 

With  a  grunt,  her  companion  relaxed,  and, 
drawing  back,  leaned  against  the  wall,  vaguely 
mopping  his  brow.  "It's  really  no  use,"  he  said 
indistinctly.  "I'm  very  sorry."  He  moved 
over  to  the  writing-table,  against  which  he 
steadied  himself  for  a  moment,  then  turned  to- 
wards the  door. 

Mabel  took  a  step  forward.  "I'm  afraid  you 
must  wait!"  she  said. 

Leslie  looked  round.  "Hey?"  he  rejoined, 
staring.  "Wait?" 

"Yes."  Mabel  gave  him  a  disturbed  glance. 
"Don't  you  see  how  impossibly  awkward  you've 
made  things?  There  wouldn't  have  been  the 
slightest  difficulty  in  explaining  to  my  nurse 
what  had  happened.  But  now,  I've  had  to  pre- 
tend— and  if — if  any  one  were  to  see  you  now 
— "  she  paused. 

Her  companion  looked  at  her,  then,  with  an 


146  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

effort,  nodded  slightly.  "Yes,  I  see — I  never 
thought- 

For  a  moment  they  exchanged  glances.  Ma- 
bel put  a  hand  to  her  forehead.  "If  only  you 
hadn't — It's  so  awkward — I  can't  quite  explain 
—I  am  afraid  some  one  may  see  you  if  you  go 
into  the  hall!" 

"Do  you  mean ?" 

"Yes,"  she  rejoined  hurriedly,  "my  nurse — I 
don't  think  I  can  quite  trust  her,  and " 

"D'you  think  she  suspected  anything?" 

"Yes,  I  do!" 

Again  they  looked  at  each  other. 

"By  Jove!"  said  Leslie  at  length.  He  stag- 
gered slightly  and,  steadying  himself  against 
the  table,  sat  on  the  edge.  "Can  you  lend  me  a 
towel?"  he  enquired.  "My  handkerchief's  no 
good." 

Mabel  crossed  to  the  washing-stand  and,  tak- 
ing a  towel  from  the  rack,  handed  it  to  him, 
scanning  his  face  with  some  apprehension. 

"Thanks."  Crumpling  the  handkerchief  into 
a  pocket  he  mopped  his  head.  "What  about  the 
other  window?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

Mabel  turned  away.  "It's  impossible!  It 
opens  right  on  the  front  wall  of  the  hotel." 

Leslie,  holding  the  towel  to  his  brow,  stood 
up.  "Let's  look,"  he  said.  Turning  from  his 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  147 

companion,  he  walked  across  the  room  to  the 
smaller  window. 

"It  is  really  no  use!"  exclaimed  Mabel,  impa- 
tiently. 

The  other  made  no  response  and,  stepping 
behind  the  dressing-table,  opened  the  shutters. 
A  square  of  moonlight  fell  on  the  floor ;  Mabel 
caught  a  glimpse,  over  the  dark  outline  of  the 
looking-glass,  of  a  single  star  hanging  amid  the 
brightness  of  the  midnight  sky.  She  realised 
suddenly  that  she  was  very  tired. 

Trooper  Leslie  leaned  out  of  the  window: 
for  some  instants  his  body  remained  motionless ; 
then  his  head  and  shoulders  re-appeared,  and, 
brushing  past  the  corner  of  the  toilet-table,  he 
crossed  to  where  Mabel  was  standing  by  the  foot 
of  the  bed.  "Do  forgive  me,"  he  said,  holding 
out  his  hand.  "I'm  most  frightfully  sorry. 
Good-night." 

Mabel,  with  an  involuntary  movement,  put 
her  arm  behind  her.  "What  are  you  going  to 
do?"  she  asked  sharply. 

Her  companion  nodded  over  his  shoulder  to 
the  window.  "I'm  going  that  way." 

Mabel  stepped  forward.  "Certainly  not!" 
she  exclaimed.  "You'll  do  nothing  of  the 
kind!" 


148  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Leslie's  eyes  followed  her  as  she  moved  be- 
tween him  and  the  dressing-table. 

"Please  stand  out  of  the  way!"  he  said, 
slowly. 

With  a  start  she  looked  up — for  the  first  time, 
in  the  full  light  of  the  lamp,  seeing  him  clearly. 
He  stood  less  than  two  feet  away,  very  straight 
and  still,  and,  at  these  close  quarters,  towering 
over  her  in  a  fashion  she  found  unusual  and 
disconcerting.  The  cut  above  his  temple  had 
dried,  but  his  forehead  was  covered  with  brown 
streaks ;  under  the  sunburn  his  pallor  was  start- 
ling, and  his  eyes  showed  almost  black  below 
the  fairness  of  his  disordered  hair.  He  looked 
very  young,  and,  at  the  moment,  ill.  As  she 
gazed,  Mabel  became  impatiently  aware  of  feel- 
ing anxious  about  him — he  seemed  as  if  he 
might  tumble  at  her  feet  next  moment.  It 
would  be  dreadful,  she  reflected,  if,  after  all  he 
had  been  through,  he  were  to  come  to  grief  in 
her  room!  Besides,  how  very — how  excessively 
tiresome  it  would  be!  She  had  been  too  much 
occupied  with  the  events  of  the  last  half-hour 
to  pause  for  thought,  but  now,  with  this  tall 
blood-stained  youth  tottering  before  her,  order- 
ing her  aside  while  he  proceeded  to  clamber  out 
of  her  bedroom  window  at  midnight,  she  saw 
that  the  situation  was  both  odd  and  embar- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  149 

rassing.  Pulling  herself  together,  she  tried  to 
hide  her  apprehensions. 

"Oh,  don't  be  silly!"  she  exclaimed,  "you're 
behaving  like  a  child !" 

Her  companion,  without  responding,  pushed 
quietly  past  her  and  walked  towards  the  win- 
dow. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  cried  Mabel,  now  thor- 
oughly alarmed,  "I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude!" 

Leslie  paused  at  the  toilet-table.  "I'm  not 
behaving  like  a  child,"  he  said  dully.  "There's 
a  water  pipe — the  roof  of  the  verandah  is  just 
below — I  can  do  it  easily."  He  moved  behind 
the  table  and,  lifting  his  right  leg,  placed  it 
over  the  sill.  Mabel  clasped  her  hands,  then  ran 
forward.  Leslie  had  staggered,  his  left  foot 
slipped  and,  but  for  his  grip  on  the  window- 
frame,  he  would  have  fallen. 

"Are  you  ill?"  Mabel,  seizing  the  end  of  the 
dressing-table,  shoved  it  aside.  "What's  the 
matter?" 

The  other  steadied  himself  on  the  sill,  then 
swayed  again.  "Hey?"  he  said  vaguely. 

"Here,  quick!"  Mabel  pulled  forward  a  chair 
from  the  wall  and,  catching  him  by  the  arm, 
half -dragged,  half-helped  him  to  the  seat.  Les- 
lie's head  sank;  with  a  jerk  he  looked  up,  tried 
to  rise  and,  staggering  again,  dropped  back. 


150  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Don't  move!"  exclaimed  Mabel  peremptor- 
ily. She  turned  to  the  toilet-table,  and  after 
selecting  a  medicine  bottle,  went  to  the  washing- 
stand,  reappearing  a  moment  later  with  a  tum- 
bler in  her  hand.  "Drink  this!"  She  touched 
the  other's  shoulder.  "It's  only  sal  volatile." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  her  companion 
obeyed  and,  choking  slightly,  leaned  forward 
and  put  the  glass  on  the  table;  he  felt  in  his 
sleeve,  then  began  to  search  in  his  pockets. 

"Here!"  said  Mabel  hastily,  holding  out  her 
handkerchief. 

"Thanks!"  He  took  the  tiny  lace  and  cam- 
bric square,  and,  after  gingerly  dabbing  his 
eyes,  laid  it,  with  an  embarrassed  air,  on  the  cor- 
ner of  the  table ;  then  made  an  effort  to  rise. 

"Mr.  Leslie!"  Mabel's  voice  was  composed 
and  firm.  "I've  heard  of  you  from  my  cousin, 
Lord  Daneborough,  you  know — Please  don't 
be  foolish  any  more.  If  you  were  well  I  should 
let  you  slide  down  that  waterpipe  and  stamp 
about  on  the  glass  of  the  dining-room  verandah, 
if  you  wanted  to.  But  it  is  quite  impossible 
now!"  She  paused  and  smiled  slightly.  "You're 
not  in  training  for  circus  tricks.  Don't 
make  things  more  difficult.  Are  you  feeling 
better?" 

Her  companion  looked  at  her  vaguely.  "Yes, 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  151 

thanks.  I'm  all  right."  After  a  pause  he  added, 
"I  could  climb  down  there  easily— 

"Nonsense!"  she  interrupted.  "If  you  are 
feeling  better,  go  by  the  door  like  an  ordinary 
mortal  and  don't  think  any  more  of  this  ab- 
surd performance.  Wait  a  moment!"  she  added, 
as  the  other  was  about  to  rise;  she  crossed  the 
room  and,  after  dipping  a  sponge  in  the  ewer, 
returned  to  the  window.  "You  really  must 
wash  your  face  first!"  She  held  out  her  hand, 
then,  seeing,  as  Leslie  glanced  up,  that  he  was 
still  alarmingly  pale,  she  continued,  "Stay!  I'll 
do  it."  Lifting  the  towel  from  the  floor  where 
her  companion  had  dropped  it,  she  moved  be- 
side him  and,  placing  the  damp  sponge  to  his 
head,  held  it  there.  "That's  better,"  she  said 
with  a  smile,  wiping  his  forehead  and  giving 
some  pats  with  the  towel.  "You  looked  just 
like  one  of  the  pictures  that  have  been  appear- 
ing of  you  in  the  papers — penny  plain,  tup- 
pence coloured!" 

At  this  remark  Trooper  Leslie's  hue  changed 
to  a  bright  crimson  and,  rearing  up  in  the  chair, 
he  seized  the  towel.  "Thanks  awfully,"  he  mum- 
bled from  behind  its  folds,  adding,  amid  a  spas- 
modic dabbing  and  rubbing,  "you're  really  most 
awfully  good!" 

Mabel  took  the  towel  and  placed  it  and  the 


152  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

sponge  on  the  washing-stand.  "Let's  have  one 
last  try  at  the  shutters,"  she  said  as  she  re- 
turned. "Wait  a  moment,  I'll  bring  the  light 
nearer."  She  went  to  the  table  by  the  bed  and, 
lifting  off  the  shade,  carried  the  lamp  to  the 
window.  "Is  that  better?" 

"Thanks,  yes,  much  better,"  responded  Les- 
lie, bending  to  examine  the  fastening.  "Hold  it 
a  little  lower,  will  you?  Yes,  by  Jove,  I  see 
what's  wrong!  They've  put  on  a  new  catch  and 
the  wood  has  swollen.  One  moment!"  He 
took  a  knife  from  his  pocket,  and,  opening  the 
small  blade,  inserted  it  between  the  leaves  of 
the  shutter  and  began,  with  some  difficulty,  to 
shave  away  the  outer  edges. 

Mabel,  the  lamp  in  her  hand,  stood  watch- 
ing. Now  that  the  episode  seemed  reasonably 
near  a  conclusion — for  her  companion  had  ap- 
parently recovered  and  was  making  progress 
with  his  blade — she  was  aware  of  feeling  not 
only  extremely  tired,  but  rather  faint,  and 
found  herself  devoutly  wishing  she  were  in  bed, 
with  the  adjacent  wall  between  her  and  the 
youth  at  her  elbow. 

"D'you  mind  holding  the  light  still?"  expos- 
tulated the  latter  mildly,  glancing  over  his 
shoulder.  "Just  a  moment  more — so  sorry  to 
bother  you— 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  153 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  Mabel  started,  and, 
grasping  the  lamp  in  both  hands,  lifted  it 
higher. 

"Thanks,"  said  Leslie.  "Afraid  you're  aw- 
fully tired !"  he  added,  staring  at  her. 

"Not  a  bit!"  declared  Mabel,  hastily. 

"Here — we'll  put  the  light  on  this."  Leav- 
ing the  knife  sticking  between  the  doors  of 
the  sash  her  companion  lifted  a  chair  forward 
and  placed  the  lamp  on  the  seat.  "That'll  do  me 
perfectly.  One  moment — I  won't  be  a  minute !" 
He  crossed  to  the  end  of  the  bed  and  returned 
with  the  big  armchair.  "Now,"  he  added,  lower- 
ing it  carefully  to  the  floor  at  her  side,  "Sit 
down." 

In  spite  of  her  fatigue,  Mabel  was  conscious 
of  some  amusement  at  the  ease  with  which  the 
heavy  piece  of  upholstery  had  been  handled. 
"Thank  you,"  she  murmured,  sinking  obediently 
on  the  seat  and  leaning  back. 

During  several  minutes,  save  for  the  soft 
crunching  of  the  knife  against  the  wood  and 
the  creak  of  Leslie's  boots  as  he  moved,  silence 
fell  on  the  room.  Mabel  watched  him  through 
half-closed  eyes.  She  felt  better  now  that  she 
was  sitting  down,  and,  although  relieved  to  see 
from  a  couple  of  experimental  shakes  which 
were  being  given  to  the  shutter,  that  the  catch 


154  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

was  at  last  beginning  to  yield,  she  was  suddenly 
aware  of  being  vaguely  entertained  by  the  sit- 
uation. The  hour  was  preposterously  late — she 
felt  too  languid  to  look  at  her  watch — but,  after 
all,  during  the  last  year,  she  had  slept  a  great 
deal  more  than  most  people  without  apparently 
deriving  much  benefit  from  the  practice,  and  al- 
though to-night's  performance  certainly  could 
not  be  said  to  fit  in  with  the  rules  of  "treat- 
ment" which  were  still  supposed  to  guide  her 
life,  yet,  to  be  fair,  she  had  longed,  in  coming 
abroad,  for  change  almost  more  than  for  further 
opportunities  for  repose — and  this,  assuredly, 
was  a  change!  To  have  a  strange  youth  mis- 
taking her  room  for  his  in  the  middle  of  a  moon- 
light night  on  Lake  Como  was  a  nuisance — 
there  was  not  a  doubt  as  to  that,  but  nobody 
had  been  to  blame  in  the  matter ;  and  he  had  been 
nice  about  it.  Yes,  on  the  whole — in  spite  of 
his  silliness  about  the  screen — he  had  been  quite 
nice.  .  .  .  Mabel  scrutinised  her  companion 
again  as  he  bent  beside  the  lamp.  Involuntarily 
she  smiled  at  the  thought  of  Lady  Grace's  satis- 
faction on  the  morrow  when  the  "Hero  of  Mac- 
teali,"  as  the  papers  called  him,  made  his  ap- 
pearance. That  Trooper  Leslie  looked  his  part 
amazingly  well  Mabel  had  realised  at  her  first 
view  of  him  on  the  loggia :  she  was  almost  sorry, 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  155 

on  her  cousin's  account,  that  the  pallor  and  the 
bloodstains  could  not  have  been  retained  over- 
night— they  had  "fitted  in"  so  admirably!  She 
found  herself  wondering  whether  he  would  be 
spoiled  by  the  fuss  that  would  be  made  of  him 
in  England.  She  hoped  not.  He  appeared  to 
have  escaped  so  far;  in  fact,  his  boyishness, 
and  something  engaging  in  his  expression,  were 
quite  attractive 

"I'm  getting  the  bulge  of  it!" 

Mabel  glanced  up  with  a  start.  Her  com- 
panion, after  placing  the  knife  on  the  chair  by 
the  lamp,  grasped  the  handle,  put  his  knee 
against  the  shutter  and  threw  forward  his 
weight.  The  sash  bent,  hinges  groaned,  but  the 
catch  still  held.  Leslie  strained  on  his  left  leg, 
his  face  crimsoning  with  the  effort:  Mabel  saw 
blood  beginning  to  ooze  again  from  the  cut  on 
his  head. 

"You're  hurting  yourself!    Please " 

"Wait!  It's  giving— There!"  After  a  last 
moment  of  resistance,  the  pieces  of  swollen 
wood  parted,  and,  with  a  crash,  the  shutters 
flew  open,  flooding  the  sill  and  threshold  in 
moonlight. 

Mabel  rose  hastily.  "Thank  goodness!"  she 
exclaimed,  drawing  a  long  breath. 


156  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Good  business!"  said  Leslie,  pocketing  his 
knife  and  feeling  for  his  handkerchief. 

Mabel  swayed  suddenly  by  her  chair.  For 
a  moment,  after  the  stuffy  semi-obscurity  be- 
hind the  shutter,  she  was  conscious  of  the  cool 
fragrance  of  the  air,  of  the  immensity  and  bril- 
liance of  the  night ;  then  a  sea  of  blue  and  silver 
eddied  and  flashed  before  her,  its  waters  rushed 
up  out  of  a  swimming  blackness  and  blotted  out 
the  moon.  .  .  . 

From  a  vast  distance,  a  murmur  reached  her 
ears  through  the  silence;  a  voice  rose  and  fell 
in  a  monotonous  chant.  Suddenly  some  one 
said, 

"Let  me  put  your  feet  up — I  say,  do  speak 
if  you  can- 
She  opened  her  eyes.  Just  out  of  the  moon- 
light she  was  lying  in  the  big  chair — her  feet 
were  being  lifted  on  to  the  small  one.  She  re- 
membered perfectly.  .  .  . 

Again  the  voice  sounded  by  her  shoulder.  "Is 

that  better?  Can  you — do  speak "  She 

snapped  up  her  lids  once  more. 

Trooper  Leslie  was  bending  over  her — some- 
thing was  hurting  her  back.  .  .  .  With  a 
great  effort  she  moved. 

"Are  you  feeling  better?"  urged  the  speaker, 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  157 

his  voice  sweeping  again  into  the  rhythm  in  her 
ears. 

With  a  jerk  Mabel  looked  round,  suddenly 
aware  that  she  had  been  fainting  and  must  rouse 
herself  at  once. 

"Yes,  thanks!"  she  gasped.  "I'm  so 
sorry "  she  tried  to  lean  forward. 

"That's  all  right,"  exclaimed  her  companion 
in  accents  of  great  relief.  She  felt  an  arm 
being  withdrawn  from  behind  her  back.  "I  say, 
would  you  rather  not  move?"  enquired  her  sup- 
porter hastily,  the  arm  ceasing  to  stir. 

Mabel  laughed  weakly.  "Of  course  not!" 
Sitting  forward,  she  felt  for  her  handkerchief. 
"I'm  really  all  right.  Do  forgive  me.  I — I 
can't  think  why  I  was  so  silly!" 

"Hadn't  you  better  have  some  of  that  stuff?" 
suggested  the  other,  rising  from  his  knees,  still 
fixing  her  with  an  anxious  eye. 

"It's  on  the  dressing-table.  Thanks  so  much! 
Give  me  what's  left  in  the  bottle — in  a  tumbler 
with  a  little  water."  Mabel  sat  back  in  the  chair 
and,  as  her  companion  crossed  towards  the 
screen,  hastily  tidied  her  hair. 

A  moment  later  Leslie  returned  with  a  glass. 
"Thank  you!"  she  said  gratefully.  "I'm  so 
sorry.  I'll  be  quite  all  right  now."  Handing 


158  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

him  the  tumbler  she  leaned  back,  dabbing  her 
mouth  and  eyes  with  her  handkerchief. 

"Sure?"  asked  the  other,  regarding  her  du- 
biously. 

"Yes,  really!  Don't  bother  about  me  any 
more.  You  must  be  quite  worn  out." 

"Not  a  bit!"  declared  her  companion,  going 
to  the  table  and  depositing  the  glass.  "Er — if 
you're  really  feeling  better,  I'll  just  fix  up 
things  here,  and  then  clear.  D'you  mind  stop- 
ping still  a  minute?  I'm  just  coming  back." 

Mabel  nodded  and,  after  watching  him  step 
on  to  the  balcony  and  disappear  in  the  direction 
of  his  room,  allowed  her  head  to  sink  on  to  the 
cushion  behind  her. 

A  radiant  silence  enveloped  the  hotel.  Not 
a  leaf  stirred  among  the  tree-tops  opposite  the 
loggia,  and  the  scent  of  orange  blossom  rose 
heavy  from  the  garden  below.  Under  the  high 
moon,  the  terraces  lay  white  and  shadeless,  their 
traceries  of  foliage  still  and  delicate  as  ivory; 
patches  of  lustre  on  the  tiles  of  the  sleeping 
houses  by  the  port  sparkled  like  gems  against 
the  sheen  of  the  water  beyond.  In  immense 
folds  of  shadow,  the  mountain  valleys  flowed 
down  to  the  shores,  and  grey,  remote  summits 
stood  encircled  above,  like  giant  spectres  guard- 
ing an  enchanted  hour. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  159 

Mabel,  still  bewildered  by  her  abrupt  awak- 
ening from  the  darkness  and  infinite  space  of 
unconsciousness,  leaned  forward  and  stared, 
with  troubled  eyes,  at  this  white,  dazzling  world. 
Her  heart  was  beating  loudly  and,  as  she  lis- 
tened, straining  her  ears  for  some  sound  of 
life  amid  the  intense  silence,  she  was  assailed 
by  a  sudden  inexplicable  terror,  purely  physi- 
cal and  unreasoning,  born  of  fatigue,  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour,  the  unfamiliar  aspect  of  the 
night,  and  the  dizziness  which,  despite  the  sal 
volatile  she  had  swallowed,  still  clouded  her 
brain.  Thrusting  a  hand  into  her  gown  in  an 
effort  to  stifle  the  throbbing  in  her  breast,  she 
looked  hurriedly  over  her  shoulder  and,  feeling 
herself  in  danger  of  being  overcome  by  a  fear 
which,  even  at  the  moment,  she  knew  to  be  cause- 
less and  absurd,  she  rose  and  stepped  towards 
the  loggia.  As  she  moved,  a  door  immediately 
behind  her,  opened  softly.  Mabel  reeled  against 
the  wall  with  a  muffled  cry. 

"Do  you  mind?"  said  a  voice.  "It's  better 
than  walking  about  the  verandah — Hullo! 
What  is  it—  —  ?"  Leslie,  encountering  Mabel's 
terrified  eyes,  stepped  forward.  "Are  you  ill?" 
he  asked  in  startled  tones,  putting  out  a  hand 
to  steady  her. 

Involuntarily  she  caught  his  arm.    For  a  mo- 


160  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

ment  she  leaned  on  him,  revealing  by  the  spas- 
modic twitch  of  her  fingers  the  extent  of  her 
agitation  and  the  effort  she  was  making  to  re- 
gain control. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  with  a 
gasp,  relaxing  her  hold.  "Can  I — sit  down, 
please?" 

"What  is  it?"  repeated  the  other  anxiously, 
hooking  round  the  armchair  with  his  foot  and 
guiding  her  to  it.  "D'you  feel  faint  again?" 

"No."  She  sank  down  and  raised  her  hands 
to  her  face,  which  had  suddenly  flushed.  "I 
wras  just—  "  she  stopped. 

"Didn't  you  call  out — as  I  opened  the  door? 
I  thought  something  had  happened!"  Leslie 
stared  at  her  with  perturbed  eyes. 

"No — yes "  stammered  Mabel  from  be- 
hind her  handkerchief.  "Nothing  happened.  I 
was  just — just — frightened,"  she  added,  with 
an  effort,  looking  up. 

"Frightened?"  repeated  the  other,  puzzled. 
"Did  any  one—  — ?"  he  glanced  towards  the 
door  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 

"No — it  wasn't  anything.  I  was  only  foolish ! 
When  you — went  away " 

"Yes?"     Leslie  stooped  to  catch  her  words. 

"Something  seemed  to  come  over  me.  I — I 
suddenly  felt  nervous  and  silly,  and  when  you 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  161 

opened  the  door,  it — it  startled  me.  That  is 
really  all!"  She  put  her  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes.  "I'm  so  sorry — I  am  not  in  the  habit  of 
behaving  like  that,"  she  added,  forcing  a  smile. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  said  her  companion,  re- 
morsefully, "I  shouldn't  have  left  you  till  you 
were  really  better." 

"It  wasn't  your  fault  in  the  least — I  was 
better.  It  was  only  something — something  about 
the  night,  I  think — everything  looked  so  strange 
— it's  very  late,  you  know,  and — perhaps  I 
wasn't  quite  myself.  It  was  like  waking  up 
alone  in  a  haunted  house !  I  can't  explain — you 
wouldn't  understand!"  With  a  little  gesture  of 
impatience  she  dabbed  her  eyes  and  prepared  to 
rise. 

"Oh,  I  expect  I  should,"  said  the  other, 
quickly. 

Mabel  glanced  up.  She  was  feeling  acutely 
ashamed  of  her  temporary  weakness.  "Under- 
stand being  afraid  of  nothing — of  simply  being 
left  by  oneself  in  the  moonlight?"  she  asked, 
astonished. 

Trooper  Leslie  met  her  gaze.  "Yes,"  he  said, 
"rather!" 

Mabel  dropped  her  eyes  suddenly.  Like 
many  highly-strung  women  she  had  an  exacting 
standard  of  physical  courage  both  for  herself 


162  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

and  for  others,  and,  trivial  as  the  circumstances 
were,  her  pride  had  suffered  in  confessing  to 
feelings  which,  in  the  nature  of  things,  her 
present  companion  was  presumably  the  last 
person  in  the  world  likely  to  comprehend.  That 
he  did  understand,  and  had  thought  it  worth 
while  to  tell  her  so,  even  more  by  his  manner 
than  by  his  words,  startled  and  touched  her.  In 
spite  of  her  remarks  to  Lady  Grace  earlier  in 
the  evening,  she  had  been,  in  her  heart,  no  less 
thrilled  than  other  people  by  the  story  that  had 
made  the  youth  beside  her  famous,  and  the  very 
fact  that,  for  one  reason  or  another,  she  had 
said  little  on  the  subject,  affected  her  now  the 
more  strongly. 

Before  she  could  reply,  Leslie  turned  to  the 
writing-table,  and,  laying  down  a  newspaper 
and  an  electric  globe  which  he  had  brought  from 
his  room,  began  to  detach  the  remains  of  the 
broken  lamp;  this  done,  he  screwed  the  new 
globe  in  its  place  under  the  lace  shade.  "That's 
better,"  he  remarked,  pushing  the  lamp  up  its 
cord.  "I  don't  need  the  new  one.  It  was  fixed 
over  a  table  with  a  lot  of  the  doctor's  things  on 
it.  Now  I'll  just  tidy  up  this  broken  glass,  and 
then  clear."  Going  down  on  his  hands  and 
knees,  he  proceeded,  with  the  aid  of  a  clothes 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  163 

brush,  to  sweep  on  to  the  newspaper  the  rem- 
nants of  the  shattered  globe. 

Mabel,  leaning  on  her  elbow,  watched  him. 
Her  cheeks  were  still  flushed,  but  she  was  smil- 
ing faintly.  In  the  midst  of  his  occupation  her 
companion,  crawling  out  of  the  shadows  beyond 
the  table,  glanced  up,  his  fair  hair  and  blue  eyes 
shining  in  the  light  of  the  lamp.  "You  all 
right?"  he  enquired  encouragingly. 

Mabel  nodded. 

"Sure?" 

"Yes." 

As  he  bent  his  head  again,  she  suddenly 
pressed  her  hands  to  her  cheeks  and  looked  out 
into  the  night.  .  .  . 

A  moment  later  the  other  rose  to  his  feet, 
crushing  the  newspaper  into  a  ball.  "Oh,  by 
the  way,  the  towel !  Do  you  mind  if  I  take  that? 
I  know  where  it  is."  Without  waiting  for  a 
reply  he  disappeared  behind  the  screen,  return- 
ing a  moment  later  with  a  damp,  bloodstained 
object  which  he  placed,  with  the  paper,  under 
his  arm.  "I'll  take  these  to  my  room,"  he  ex- 
plained. "If  any  one  sees  the  cut  to-morrow 
I'll  say  I'd  been  writing  at  the  doctor's  table 
and  smashed  my  head  against  the  globe  getting 
up.  That's  about  everything,  I  think,"  he 
added  with  a  smile. 


164  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Mabel  raised  herself.  "Thank  you,"  she  said, 
glancing  up  at  him  quickly. 

"I  say,  are  you  sure  you  are  feeling  better?" 
he  enquired,  pausing  by  her  chair. 

"Yes— really." 

"Well,"  he  edged  towards  the  sill.  "Er— 
good-night!  I  do  hope  you'll  be  all  right  to- 
morrow." 

"Thanks,"  said  Mabel  again.    "Good-night." 

Trooper  Leslie  lingered.  "Er — I  suppose 
you  are  Mrs.  Arbuthnot.  Daneborough  told 
me  you  were  to  be  here.  I  feel  awfully  bad 
in  case  this  business  may  have  knocked  you 
up!  I  heard  you  were  ill." 

"I  am  much  stronger,  thank  you.  Please 
don't  worry  about  it — it  was  nobody's  fault." 
Then  after  a  pause,  "Was  that — was  that  my 
cousin  with  you  to-night?" 

"Next  door?" 

"Yes." 

"Yes,  rather !  You  know  him  quite  well,  don't 
you?" 

"I  used  to." 

"He's  a  most  awfully  good  chap — been  most 
awfully  good  to  me!"  Leslie's  eyes  lit  up. 

Mabel  smiled  faintly.  "I  thought  it  was 
rather  the  other  way." 

"How  d'you  mean?" 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  165 

"Well,  you — you  saved  his  life,  didn't  you?" 
she  rejoined. 

Her  companion  became  suddenly  scarlet 
under  his  sunburn.  "Oh,  that!"  he  said,  awk- 
wardly. "That's  all  rot — I  mean  there's  been 
far  too  much  fuss — ever  so  much  too 

much "  He  hung  fire  for  a  moment.  "I 

didn't  mean  about  that,"  he  added,  brusquely. 

"What  did  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  well — I  meant — he  was  my  sergeant, 
you  know.  Every  one  thought  a  tremendous 
lot  of  him  out  there.  You'll  see  when  you  meet 
him!"  He  gazed  at  her  eagerly.  "How  long 
is  it  since  you  last  saw  him?" 

"Eight  years." 

"By  Jove!  You'll  see  a  tremendous  differ- 
ence in  him,  I  expect." 

"Yes.     I  am  rather  afraid  I  shall!" 

"Oh,  but  I  expect  he'll  be  just  the  same  to 
you — you  know.  I  mean " 

"I  didn't  quite  mean  that,"  interrupted  Ma- 
bel, smiling  in  spite  of  herself.  "Never  mind! 
You  really  musn't  stay  talking  any  longer. 
Good-night!  What  time  is  it ?" 

Leslie  drew  back  his  cuff.  "Quarter  to  one," 
he  said. 

Mabel,  rising  slowly,  gazed  out  through  the 
arch  of  the  loggia.  Her  companion  moved  be- 


166  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

side  her.  "By  Jove,  what  a  night!"  he  whis- 
pered in  an  awed  voice.  "You  don't  mind  it 
now?"  he  added,  looking  down  at  her.  Mabel 
shook  her  head  and  smiled  faintly.  For  some 
moments  they  stood,  their  shoulders  touching. 
The  moon  was  sinking,  and  great  shadows  lay 
like  the  background  of  dreams  on  the  surface 
of  the  sleeping  lake. 

"It's  like  a  spell,"  said  Leslie  softly.  "As 
if  everything  were 

"What?" 

"Waiting — waiting  for  something  wonder- 
ful," he  whispered. 

Mabel  glanced  at  him  quickly;  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  distant  shore. 

At  length  she  moved.  "Good-night,"  she 
said,  holding  out  her  hand. 

With  a  start  her  companion  turned.  "Good- 
night!" he  murmured.  "You've  been  most  aw- 
fully good.  Do  forgive  me!" 

Mabel  dropped  his  hand.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
looking  hard  at  him.  "Yes,  I  forgive  you." 

Leslie  paused  as  though  puzzled.     "Sure?" 

"Yes.    Go  away  now!     Good-night." 

He  moved  towards  his  room.  "Good-night. 
We'll  meet  to-morrow?" 

"Yes." 

Again  Leslie  glanced  at  her.    She  stood,  one 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  167 

knee  resting  on  the  chair  by  the  sill,  gazing  into 
the  night.  As  he  halted,  she  looked  round  at 
him,  her  eyes  shining.  .  .  . 

"Good-night!"  said  Trooper  Leslie,  awk- 
wardly ;  he  backed  along  the  loggia,  and,  a  mo- 
ment later,  disappeared  through  his  window. 

For  some  seconds  Mabel  remained  staring  be- 
fore her.  Then  she  started  and  glanced  round : 
the  door  between  the  rooms  closed  softly  and 
the  key  turned  in  the  lock.  Muffled  sounds  of 
footsteps  and  the  thump  of  baggage  being 
moved,  came  from  the  next  room,  accompanied 
by  soft  intermittent  whistling.  She  smiled 
faintly,  and,  after  another  long  look  at  the  lake, 
turned  indoors.  Lighting  a  lamp  on  the  dress- 
ing-table, she  paused  for  some  moments  before 
the  mirror,  then,  going  to  the  table  by  the  bed, 
unpinned  her  watch  from  the  front  of  her  gown 
and  laid  it  among  the  books.  Her  eye  fell  on 
the  Graphic;  she  picked  it  up,  and,  bending 
towards  the  light,  gazed  at  Trooper  Leslie's 
picture.  The  smile  still  on  her  lips,  she  folded 
the  paper  and  after  crossing  to  the  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  opened  her  writing-case. 
From  under  its  cover  the  photograph  of  her 
cousin  slipped  on  to  the  cloth :  with  a  slight  con- 
traction of  her  brows  Mabel  lifted  it  and  stood 
for  some  seconds  looking  thoughtfully  before 


168  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

her.  Suddenly  she  turned,  and,  placing  the 
Graphic  inside  her  case,  opened  the  drawer  of 
the  table  and  dropped  the  photograph  out  of 
sight.  Then  she  moved  to  the  toilet-table  and, 
sitting  down  before  the  glass,  raised  her  hands 
to  her  hair. 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE  afternoon  sunlight  was  pouring  through 
the  arch  of  the  loggia  next  day  as  Lord  Dane- 
borough,  escorted  by  a  small  boy  in  a  khaki  liv- 
ery, ornamented  with  large  bone  buttons,  en- 
tered the  room. 

"Signora  Arbutanote  viene  subito" 

"Hey?"  said  his  lordship,  swinging  round 
and  staring. 

His  guide  retreated  and,  grasping  the  door 
handle,  repeated  the  message. 

"Oh— er,  all  right." 

The  door  closed,  and  the  visitor,  after  glanc- 
ing round  the  room,  walked  to  the  fireplace 
and,  putting  his  hands  into  his  trousers  pockets, 
leaned  against  the  mantelpiece. 

Except  for  a  slight  limp,  Lord  Danebor- 
ough  seemed  to  have  quite  recovered  from  his 
recent  hardships.  Indeed,  since  the  rescue  at 
Macteali,  he  had  begun  to  put  on  flesh  for  the 
first  time  in  over  seven  years,  and  the  lean 
frame  and  sun-blackened  features  of  Sergeant 
Brown  were  expanding  and  mellowing  to  an 

169 


170  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

aspect  more  in  keeping  with  the  days  of  plenty 
that  had  then  dawned. 

Gerald  had  taken  the  news  of  his  altered 
circumstances  with  a  calm  that  bordered  on  im- 
passivity. After  a  couple  of  startled  oaths,  for 
which  he  apologised,  he  had  listened  to  Bishop 
Raymond's  narrative  without  comment,  except 
to  ask  some  questions  about  money  matters. 
Thereafter  he  kept  his  thoughts  on  the  situation 
to  himself;  but,  when  alone,  his  face  would  fre- 
quently relax  into  a  broad  grin,  and  during  the 
weeks  of  his  convalescence,  he  had  more  than 
once  astonished  the  nurses  who  attended  him  in 
the  private  hospital  at  Cape  Town,  by  sudden 
guffaws  of  laughter  which  he  had  explained  as 
being  due  to  his  appreciation  of  "the  whole 
blooming  show,"  as  it  was  beginning  to  strike 
him. 

Gerald's  mental  qualities  and  attainments 
were  of  the  primitive  type,  still  not  infrequently 
to  be  found  among  the  aristocracy  of  Britain. 
His  education  had  followed  two  divergent  lines : 
along  one  loomed  the  schoolroom  tasks  he  had 
to  learn  in  order  to  avoid  being  punished;  on 
the  other  lay  the  lore  of  the  stable  and  field, 
which  not  only  absorbed  his  own  instincts  and 
ambitions,  but  held  the  key  to  the  approval  of 
every  one  around  him,  including  his  father. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  171 

That  he  had,  in  due  course,  infuriated  the  lat- 
ter by  failing  for  the  army,  and  had,  thereafter, 
become  a  very  efficient  trooper  and  non-com- 
missioned officer  of  constabulary  on  the  Afri- 
can veld,  was  a  natural  sequence  to  his  upbring- 
ing and  a  tribute  to  his  powers  of  advancing 
along  his  own  line  of  development. 

Now,  however,  in  the  military  phase,  his  fate 
had  "changed  direction,"  and  Gerald  found 
himself,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  uncertain 
of  his  bearings.  The  truth  was  that  tempera- 
ment and  environment  alike  had,  for  the  mo- 
ment at  least,  wholly  unfitted  him  for  his  new 
position.  He  was  democratic  in  the  sense  that, 
like  the  Brahmin  in  Kipling's  story,  caste  had 
no  particular  meaning  for  him ;  and  his  present 
social  prominence  had  already  begun  to  bore 
him.  Without  having  what  are  called  low 
tastes,  he  had,  as  a  boy,  felt  most  at  home  with 
the  grooms  and  game-keepers  who  could  teach 
him  what  he  wanted  to  know;  and  the  subse- 
quent seven  years  in  the  ranks  of  a  corps  where 
the  proportion  of  gentlemen,  in  his  view  of  the 
word,  was  at  least  as  great  among  the  troopers 
as  among  the  officers,  had  roughened  his  habits 
and  language  without  affecting  him  with  any 
sense  of  deterioration. 

So  he  had  been  unprepared  for  the  feelings 


172  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

of  awkwardness  which  had  beset  him  from  the 
moment  when  he  left  the  hospital  and  found 
himself  among  people  of  society.  The  situation 
was  further  complicated  by  his  prejudices. 
When,  to  quote  his  own  words,  "it  had  to  be  a 
question  of  social  rot,"  the  people,  even  in 
England,  wiiose  pretensions  he  recognised,  were 
strictly  limited  in  number  and,  not  unnaturally, 
Cape  Town  circles  could  boast  of  none  of 
them;  while  he  had,  on  the  other  hand,  all  an 
up-country  and  Crown  Colony  man's  contempt 
for  the  Cape  and  its  ways.  It  was  not  sur- 
prising, therefore,  that  his  efforts  to  hide  his 
shyness  sometimes  took  a  form  which  did  not 
commend  itself  to  local  society,  and  that,  very 
soon,  his  new  acquaintances,  and  particularly 
the  ladies  among  them,  began  to  remark  that 
Lord  Daneborough  was  rather  a  rough  dia- 
mond. 

As  Gerald  had  always  nourished  the  theory 
that,  except  for  the  romance  which  had  attended 
his  flight  from  England,  he  was  not  and  never 
had  been  a  "lady's  man,"  it  might  be  supposed 
that  this  lack  of  success  would  have  left  him 
unmoved;  but  he  was  undergoing,  at  this  junc- 
ture, a  reaction  from  the  deprivations  of  his 
up-country  life  that  disclosed  itself  in  divers 
forms,  among  which  a  somewhat  indiscriminate 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  173 

craving  for  female  society  became  conspicu- 
ous. 

Mabel's  letter  suggesting  that  he  should  break 
his  journey  to  England  and  join  her  party  on 
Lake  Como,  while  stimulating  these  prompt- 
ings, had  the  effect  of  diverting  their  course. 
Its  references  to  other  days  called  up  memories 
that  had  already  visited  him  during  his  conva- 
lescence, and  inspired  him,  further,  with  the 
soothing  belief  that  the  sooner  he  said  goodbye 
to  Colonial  society  and  got  back  to  what  he 
termed  his  "own  crowd,"  the  better.  His  feel- 
ings towards  Mabel  herself  were  so  vague  that, 
for  the  time  being,  he  preferred  not  to  review 
them  too  closely.  While  he  was  shrewd  enough 
to  see  that  her  letter  was  merely  intended  to 
re-open  an  old  friendship,  he  was  not  without 
an  impression  that,  in  the  altered  circumstances 
both  of  his  life  and  of  hers,  it  at  least  paved 
the  way  for  further  developments. 

This  contingency,  however,  he  decided  to  put 
aside  for  the  present;  and,  supported  by  the 
approval  of  his  doctor,  he  changed  his  home- 
ward plans  to  include  a  month  in  Italy,  with  no 
more  definite  feelings  than  those  of  exhilaration 
at  the  prospect  of  an  earlier  departure  from 
the  Cape,  and  of  meeting  the  one  person  asso- 


174  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

ciated  with  his  old  life  from  whom  he  felt  cer- 
tain of  a  warm  welcome. 

But  on  the  voyage  his  mood  fluctuated,  and 
doubts  began  to  assail  him  as  to  whether  this 
Italian  trip  were  wise.  Like  many  simple  peo- 
ple Gerald  had  a  horror  of  anything  which 
even  faintly  suggested  a  trap,  and  although 
never  in  his  cogitations  on  the  subject  did  he 
dream  of  suspecting  Mabel  of  intentions  other 
than  had  appeared  in  her  letter,  yet  he  was  far 
from  being  sure  where  his  own  feelings  might 
land  him.  This  view  of  the  matter  was  ac- 
centuated by  a  progress  among  his  fellow- 
passengers  which,  after  his  Cape  Town  experi- 
ences, surprised  and  gratified  him.  He  was, 
as  he  expressed  it,  "beginning  to  wake  up"; 
and  on  board  a  Castle  Liner,  this  process  can- 
not overtake  a  marquis  with  a  fair  share  of  good 
looks  and  a  romantic  past,  without  producing 
results.  In  the  present  case,  these  supplied 
Gerald  with  opportunities  of  which  he  took  full 
advantage,  and  he  left  the  ship  at  Madeira  with 
a  view  of  his  capabilities  as  a  Don  Juan  that 
materially  complicated  the  feelings  with  which 
he  headed  for  Lake  Como. 

For  on  the  journey  he  found  himself,  almost 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  and  much  against 
the  grain,  involved  in  a  subjective  dilemma. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  175 

Either  he  wanted  to  marry  or  he  did  not:  if  he 
did,  and  if  there  were  any  prospect  of  Mabel 
accepting  him,  he  now  had  an  unpleasant  feel- 
ing that  he  was  pushing  the  matter  with  un- 
necessary haste;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  he  did 
not  contemplate  such  a  step,  or  if  as  he  more 
than  suspected,  his  cousin  was  without  the 
smallest  intention  of  marrying  him,  then  this 
trip  to  Italy  was  a  waste  of  time,  and  he  wished 
himself  back  among  his  adventures  on  board. 
Put  thus  simply,  his  present  course  seemed  ill- 
judged  either  way;  and,  as  the  train  rushed  in 
and  out  of  the  tunnels  between  Genoa  and  Spez- 
zia,  Gerald  turned  to  the  manipulation  of  the 
carriage  window  with  the  gloomy  conviction 
that  he  had  been  "had." 

At  Milan  his  spirits  were  further  affected  by 
an  attack  of  nerves.  He  was  a  shy  man,  and  the 
recollection  of  his  recent  successes  on  the  high 
seas  failed  to  support  him  when  he  thought  of 
meeting  his  cousin  next  day.  The  agreeable 
memories  that  had  hitherto  encouraged  him  re- 
ceded, giving  way  before  lively  reminders  of 
Mabel's  intellectual  and  moral  superiority  to 
himself,  which,  although  a  potent  feature  of 
the  spell  she  had  wielded  in  the  past,  seemed 
somehow  less  enthralling  now,  than  formerly. 
A  further  period  of  introspection,  in  the  smok- 


176  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

ing-room  of  the  Hotel  Cavour,  left  him  with 
an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  time  was  unlikely 
to  have  bridged  the  gulf  between  them  in  these 
respects.  Gerald  had  a  good  disposition,  but 
there  was  a  sullen  streak  in  his  temper  that  had 
always  been  apt  to  come  out  when  he  was  afraid 
of  showing  to  disadvantage,  so,  after  a  rest- 
less night,  he  had  boarded  the  train  for  Lecco 
in  a  state  of  gloom  which  his  fellow-travellers 
found  distinctly  trying. 

And  now  the  moment  had  arrived.  As  he 
waited  for  Mabel  to  appear,  he  began  to  move 
about  restlessly,  staring  at  the  objects  around 
him.  Since  mid-day  the  room  had  been  trans- 
formed: the  bedroom  furniture  was  now  re- 
placed by  the  hotel  "salon  suite"  to  which  had 
been  added  various  purchases  made  by  Mabel 
during  a  recent  visit  to  the  antiquarii  at  Menag- 
gio,  together  with  many  flowers,  books,  and 
soft-coloured  cushions.  Gerald,  in  his  progress 
round  the  room,  paused  before  a  chest  of  eigh- 
teenth-century Italian  tarsia  work  standing  be- 
tween the  windows,  the  lower  drawer  of  which, 
carelessly  closed,  showed  an  end  protruding,  and 
the  ex-sergeant,  whose  training  had  made  him 
neat  in  such  matters,  mechanically  raised  his 
toe  and  shoved.  The  drawer,  true  to  the  ways 
of  its  kind  and  period,  remained  immovable,  but 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  177 

the  cassone  rocked  heavily  on  its  legs,  upsetting 
a  vase  of  roses  standing  on  its  top.  Gerald 
swore  softly,  replaced  the  vase  and  its  contents, 
mopped  up  the  water  with  his  handkerchief, 
and  retreated  towards  a  table,  littered  with 
books,  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  A  brief  glance 
at  several  volumes  on  Renaissance  Art  and  His- 
tory, drove  him  to  a  small  Bologna  table  by  the 
sofa,  on  which  he  espied  a  heap  of  loose  photo- 
graphs; these  he  turned  over  hopefully  but, 
after  staring  at  half-a-dozen  "details"  of  pillar- 
capitals  in  St.  Ambrogio  at  Milan  and  at  a 
number  of  typical  early-Lombard  ecclesiastical 
fa9ades,  he  shuffled  the  others  together  and 
turned  away  discouraged.  The  subjects  on  the 
walls — framed  reproductions  of  some  of  Ma- 
bel's favourite  pictures — were  less  inexplicable, 
but  no  more  to  his  taste:  he  moved  from  Car- 
paccio's  "Vision  of  S.  Ursula,"  and  Bellini's 
"Sacra  Conversazione"  to  Botticelli's  "Spring," 
in  a  dull  surprise,  which,  brightening  momentar- 
ily before  {he  "Birth  of  Venus,"  sank,  on  a 
closer  view,  to  renewed  apathy.  Returning  to 
the  fireplace  he  inspected  his  reflection  in  a  Ve- 
netian mirror  above  the  mantelpiece :  having  no 
experience  of  eighteenth-century  glass,  his  as- 
pect startled  him  into  the  conviction  that  he 
must  look  even  more  "dicky"  than  he  felt.  With 


178  THE  'RECONNAISSANCE 

a  grunt  of  impatience  he  strode  to  the  door 
and,  pressing  the  electric  bell,  leaned  gloomily 
against  the  wall. 

After  a  short  pause  a  knock  sounded  by  his 
shoulder. 

"Come  in!"  he  shouted,  without  moving. 

The  handle  turned  and  a  young  waiter  sidled 
into  the  room. 

"Find  out  if  Mrs.  Arbuthnot  is  coming 
down!" 

The  waiter  faced  about  with  a  jump. 
fl Command^  signore?" 

"Tell  Mrs.  Arbuthnot — Madame  Arbuthnot 
— can't  you  speak  English?" 

" Commands,  signore?" 

"Oh,  hang  it,  never  mind!"  Gerald  pushed 
past  and,  walking  to  the  table,  seized  a  book. 
"Get  out!" 

"Prego,"  responded  the  other  effusively,  and, 
with  a  sudden  inspiration,  slipped  round  the 
table,  closed  both  windows  fast  and  retreated 
into  the  passage,  shutting  the  door  behind  him. 

Lord  Daneborough  dropped  his  book  an- 
grily; as  it  struck  the  table  a  number  of  loose 
Kodak  photographs  slid  from  between  the 
pages  and  scattered  over  the  floor. 

"Oh,  curse  the  infernal  things!"  exclaimed  his 
lordship,  exploding  suddenly,  and  diving  after 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  179 

the  prints;  he  was  impeded  by  his  lame  knee, 
and,  after  trying  vainly  to  reach  some  sheets 
that  had  eddied  inwards  below  the  table,  he  low- 
ered himself  sulkily  to  the  floor,  his  wounded 
leg  projecting  before  him.  At  this  juncture 
the  door  opened  and  Nurse  Coxon  entered. 

For  a  moment  the  newcomer  stared  in  as- 
tonishment ;  then,  as  Gerald,  becoming  aware  of 
her  presence,  pulled  his  head  from  below  the 
table  and  turned  in  her  direction,  she  closed 
the  door  and  stepped  forward. 

"Let  me  help  you!"  Bending  quickly,  she 
picked  up  the  remaining  sheets,  then,  straight- 
ening herself,  put  out  a  hand  to  steady  her 
companion  as  he  climbed  to  his  feet. 

"Thanks,"  said  the  latter  gruffly,  dropping 
the  rescued  prints  oji  the  table  and  dusting  him- 
self with  his  handkerchief. 

"Where  do  they  go?"  enquired  Nurse  Coxon. 

Daneborough  pointed  to  the  book.  "In 
there." 

Having  replaced  the  photographs,  the  new- 
comer turned  to  her  companion. 

"Lord  Daneborough?" 

Gerald  nodded.     "Yes." 

"How  d'you  do?  Mrs.  Arbuthnot  asked  me 
to  tell  you  she  would  be  here  directly." 

"Thanks.    Will  she  be  long?" 


180  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Oh  no!  She  had  to  change  her  room  this 
morning  so  she  took  a  rest  after  lunch.  She'll 
be  here  immediately." 

Lord  Daneborough  had  retreated  to  the  fire- 
place. A  pause  followed  during  which  the 
nurse  went  to  the  sofa  and,  after  refolding  a 
Cashmere  shawl,  arranged  a  couple  of  small 
lace-covered  cushions. 

Gerald  watched  these  preparations.  "She's 
fitter,  isn't  she?"  he  enquired. 

"Oh,  much!"  Nurse  Coxon  laid  the  shawl 
over  the  foot  of  the  sofa.  "She  had  a  bad 
night,  that's  all.  The  storm  disturbed  her,  and 
some  new  arrivals  came,  just  after  she  had 
dropped  asleep,  and  made  a  lot  of  noise  next 
door." 

Her  companion  stared.  "Very  sorry,"  he 
said  in  aggrieved  tones.  "Didn't  think  we  made 
much  noise." 

"Oh,  you  were  the  culprits,  were  you?"  Nurse 
Coxon  looked  up  playfully.  "Mrs.  Arbuth- 
not  is  quite  cross  with  you!" 

"Nothing  to  do  with  me.  My  room's  upstairs 
somewhere — other  end  of  the  hotel." 

"Then  it  certainly  can't  have  been  your 
fault,"  said  the  other  pacifically,  pulling  the 
small  table  beside  the  head  of  the  sofa.  "I  was 
only  chaffing,"  she  continued.  "Mrs.  Arbuth- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  181 

not  isn't  a  bit  angry.  Her  nerves  aren't  very 
good,  and  she  had  a  headache  this  morning, 
that's  all." 

Lord  Daneborough  was  still  frowning. 
"Very  sorry." 

Miss  Coxon  turned  towards  the  fireplace. 
"Please  don't  let  her  know  I  said  anything 
about  it — she'd  be  furious!"  As  she  met  her 
companion's  eye  she  smiled  appealingly.  "It 
is  so  difficult  sometimes  when  one  is  looking 
after  a  patient,  not  to  seem  disagreeable  to 
other  people — don't  you  know.  I  didn't  mean 
to  be  horrid!" 

Gerald  stroked  his  moustache.  The  speaker 
was  dressed  in  a  very  becoming  "uniform"  of 
dove-coloured  grey;  the  tight  snowy  bands  of 
the  apron  and  bib  accentuated  the  curves  of 
her  figure,  and  her  red-gold  hair  and  the  dull 
pink  of  her  skin  showed  effectively  against  the 
starched  ribbons  of  her  cap. 

"All  right."  His  face  relaxed.  "I  expect 
its  pretty  tough  having  to  do  with  invalids— 
especially  women!" 

Nurse  Coxon  glanced  past  him  towards  the 
mirror  and  smoothed  her  fringe.  "Do  you  think 
men  are  better?" 

Gerald  stared.    "Yes!"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 

"Isn't     that     rather     conceited     of     you?" 


182  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

remarked  the  other,  turning  towards  the 
window. 

Lord  Daneborough  followed  her  with  his 
eyes.  "Don't  know  about  that.  You  asked 
me  a  question  and  I  answered  it." 

"I  didn't  say  I  agreed  with  you,  though!" 

"Perhaps  you've  never  looked  after  men?" 

Nurse  Coxon  gazed  into  the  sunshine. 
"That's  guessing,"  she  said. 

Subtle  but  exhilarating  memories  of  the  sea 
visited  Gerald.  "Is  it?  I  bet  I  know  the  an- 
swer!" Detaching  himself  from  the  mantel- 
piece, he  moved  across  the  floor. 

His  companion  seated  herself  on  the  back 
of  the  sofa  and  dangled  a  foot.  "Aren't  the 
mountains  lovely?"  she  observed  brightly,  point- 
ing in  front  of  her. 

Lord  Daneborough  continued  to  advance. 
"That's  not  the  question!" 

"Really?"  The  other  wrinkled  her  brow.  "I 
thought  it  was  I  that  asked  you  something  a 
moment  ago." 

"Well,  I  answered  you." 

"You  did!"  Nurse  Coxon  giggled,  "like  a 
man!" 

"This  is  another!"  interrupted  his  lordship  a 
little  incoherently,  rounding  the  foot  of  the 
sofa.  "Shall  I  tell  you  the  answer?" 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  183 

"No,  thanks."  Nurse  Coxon  slipped  from 
her  perch  and  retreated  downwards.  "Good- 
bye!" 

"No,  look  here!  Don't  go — stay  and  talk 
for  a  bit!" 

The  other  paused  on  the  threshold.  "I  am 
sure  you  would  much  rather  read  some  of  those 
nice  books!" 

"No  fear !"  Dropping  on  the  end  of  the  sofa, 
Lord  Daneborough  patted  a  cushion  invitingly. 
"Come  on — come  and  talk!" 

Miss  Coxon  felt  for  the  handle.  "Put  your 
feet  up  and  rest  your  knee!  Goodbye!" 

"You  little !"  Gerald  sprang  to  his 

feet. 

"Ta-ta!"  Pulling  open  the  door,  Nurse 
Coxon  dashed  for  the  passage,  recoiling,  with 
a  cry,  as  Mrs.  Arbuthnot,  carrying  a  writing- 
case  and  some  books,  appeared  on  the  thresh- 
old. 

Involuntarily  Mabel  drew  back.  "Is  any- 
thing  Oh!" 

"Sorry  there!  By  Jove — How  d'ye  do,  Ma- 
bel?" Lord  Daneborough,  after  cannoning 
into  the  nurse,  pulled  up  heavily  on  the  mat. 

"Why,  how  do  you  do,  Gerald?"  Mabel  held 

out  her  hand.  "Is  anything ?"  She  looked 

round,  still  startled. 


184  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"I  wanted  the  window  opened,  Mrs.  Arbuth- 
not;  we'd  been  ringing  for  ages.  Lord  Dane- 
borough  was  just  going  to  make  a  row  about 
it." 

"Awful  ass  of  a  waiter,"  corroborated  his 
lordship,  volubly.  "Can't  understand  a  word 
of  English.  Don't  expect  he  knows  what  a  bell 
means!" 

"Oh."  Mabel  advanced  into  the  room.  "I'm 
so  sorry;  Luigi  is  usually  so  quick.  Couldn't 
you  open  it?"  Still  puzzled,  she  turned  to 
Nurse  Coxon. 

"It's  stuck,"  responded  the  latter,  with  a 
stare. 

"But " 

"Like  it's  been  doing  lately."  The  nurse's 
brown  eyes  became  bead-like.  "Perhaps 
you— 

"No,  look  here,  I  say!"  Lord  Daneborough 
dashed  over  and  attacked  the  sash  with  great 
energy. 

"Please  open  the  other  window,  Nurse,"  said 
Mabel,  "the  room  is  very  hot." 

For  a  moment  the  other  hesitated,  then,  as 
Mrs.  Arbuthnot  continued  to  look  at  her,  she 
turned  and,  after  crossing  to  the  smaller  win- 
dow, opened  it  noisily. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  135 

"There!"  With  a  crash  Lord  Daneborough 
threw  back  the  French  sashes. 

"Thank  you,  Gerald."  Mabel  put  her  writ- 
ing-case on  the  table  by  the  sofa.  "Come  and 
sit  down,  won't  you?  Thank  you,  Nurse.  Will 
you  go  and  see  about  my  room?  It  is  still  very 
uncomfortable. ' ' 

As  the  other  marched  out  of  the  door,  clos- 
ing it  behind  her,  Mabel  turned  to  her  cousin 
with  a  smile.  "I'm  so  sorry  to  have  kept  you 
waiting!  I  had  to  rest  after  lunch.  Won't 
you  sit  down?"  Settling  herself  on  the  sofa 
she  pointed  to  an  armchair. 

"Thanks."  Lord  Daneborough,  after  sur- 
reptitiously fumbling  at  his  necktie  which  had 
been  disordered  by  his  recent  activities,  wheeled 
the  chair  forward  and  obeyed. 

"And  how  are  you?"  Mabel  gazed  at  her 
cousin  affectionately.  "It's  so  nice  to  see  you 
at  last.  I  do  hope  you  are  feeling  better?" 

"Yes,  thanks.  I'm  all  right  again.  Er — 
hope  you're  feeling  fitter?" 

"Oh,  I'm  ever  so  much  better."  Mabel  leaned 
back  among  the  cushions.  "I  expect  very  soon 
to  be  able  to  live  like  an  ordinary  mortal  again. 
I  shall  be  so  glad  when  I've  finished  with  doc- 
tors and  nurses!" 

"Yes,  I  daresay,"  acquiesced  Gerald. 


186  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

A  momentary  pause  ensued.  Daneborough 
fiddled  with  his  collar.  Mabel,  glancing  up, 
caught  his  eye  turned  on  her. 

"Did  you  have  a  comfortable  journey?"  she 
pursued,  smiling. 

"Er "  Gerald  glanced  away  awkwardly. 

"Not  bad.  Lost  most  of  my  kit  at  Milan  sta- 
tion. Expect  some  of  those  Dago  chaps  bagged 
it." 

Mabel  laughed.  "The  Italians  won't  like  you 
if  you  call  them  Dagos,  Gerald!" 

Her  cousin  settled  in  his  chair  and  crossed 
his  legs.  "Can't  help  that.  That's  nothing  to 
what  I  called  'em  at  the  station  yesterday,"  he 
said,  with  a  grin. 

Mabel  smiled.  "Tell  me  about  yourself.  You 
arrived  late  last  night,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes.    Afraid  we  woke  you  up " 

"Oh,  but  you  didn't!  I  hadn't  gone  to  bed 
when  you  arrived." 

"Oh,  I  thought  the  row  next  door  had  put 
you  off  your  sleep — made  you  change  your 
room,  and  all  that." 

"No,  really.  I  should  have  changed  any- 
way. I — I  just  heard  you,  that  was  all." 

"Sorry.  Must  have  been  the  other  man, 
though.  My  room's  at  the  other  end  of  the  ho- 
tel." 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  187 

"Oh."  Mabel  paused.  "It  really  doesn't 
matter,"  she  went  on  with  a  smile.  "I  wasn't 
disturbed  the  least  little  bit.  I  can't  think  who 
can  have  put  such  an  idea  into  your  head!" 

"By  Jove!  I  forgot — shouldn't  have  said 
anything.  Promised  your  nurse  not  to." 

"Nurse  Coxon  ?  I  said  nothing  to  her !"  Ma- 
bel looked  up  surprised. 

"Oh."  Gerald  stared  at  his  toes.  "Sorry. 
Thought  you  did." 

"No,  really !"  Mabel  cast  a  puzzled  glance  at 
her  companion.  After  a  short  silence  she  con- 
tinued pleasantly,  "I  was  so  surprised  to  hear 
that  Cousin  St.  John  was  with  you." 

Gerald  nodded.    "Yes,  he's  here." 

"I'm  so  glad.  I'm  looking  forward  tre- 
mendously to  seeing  him  again.  Do  tell  me 
about  him.  Is  he  well?" 

"Yes,  he's  all  right." 

"There  was  a  good  deal  about  him  in  the 
papers  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  but  it  was 
when  I  was  ill  so  I  didn't  read  any  of  it.  He 
has  a  wonderful  reputation  in  Africa,  hasn't 
he?" 

"Well "  Gerald  grinned,  "I  don't  know 

— depends." 

"Oh ?"  Mabel  looked  up  interroga- 
tively. 


188  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Depends  what  you  call  wonderful.  Per- 
sonally speaking,  I  wouldn't  be  seen  dead  at  a 
dog-fight  with  it!"  Her  companion  laughed. 

"I  don't  understand." 

"You  would  if  you'd  been  out  there.  Most 
people  think  he's  not  much  better  than  a 
traitor!" 

"But  why,  Gerald?  How  dreadful !"  Mabel 
sat  forward.  "You  don't  mean  he's  done  any- 
thing— that  he's  being  sent  home  to  be  pun- 
ished! I  can't  believe  St.  John— 

"Ha — ha!"  Gerald  looked  up,  genuinely 
amused.  "Good  old  'Trekking  Moses' — that's 
one  for  him!" 

"But  you  said " 

"Well,  perhaps  it's  a  bit  thick  to  call  him  a 
traitor!  He's  not  a  bad  chap,  St.  John,  in 
some  ways — he's  been  jolly  decent  to  me  over 
all  this  business,  and  he  and  I  are  very  good 
pals,  and  all  that.  It's  his  infernal  politics  that 
do  for  him  among  decent  people." 

"You  mean ?" 

"I  mean  he  backs  the  niggers  against  the 
whites,  and  tries  to  make  out  they're  as  good 
as  we  are — a  darned  sight  better,  in  fact." 

"Well "  Mabel  hesitated,  "I  suppose, 

perhaps,  it's  difficult  for  a  missionary.  He  has 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  189 

to  teach  them  religion  and  self-respect,  you  see. 
If  he  didn't  believe  in  them,  and 

"He  needn't  teach  them  treason,  though!" 

"Of  course  not—but— 

"Well,  he  teaches  them  to  cheek  white  men 
and  refuse  to  work — it  amounts  to  the  same 
thing!"  Gerald  stuck  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

As  his  cousin  did  not  answer  he  continued 
in  aggrieved  tones.  "That's  the  worst  of  peo- 
ple at  home!  You  think  because  we've  got  to 
keep  the  natives  in  order  and  try  to  make  'em 
do  some  work  and  stop  fooling  about  killing 
each  other,  like  they  used  to,  that  they're  being 
ill-treated,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  And  when 
chaps  like  St.  John  side  with  them  and  write 
to  the  papers,  every  one  believes  what  they  say 
because  they're  parsons.  Then  when  a  war 
comes — simply  because  the  niggers  have  been 
allowed  to  do  what  they  like  and  have  got  their 
heads  swelled — then  these  fellows  in  Parlia- 
ment get  up  and  say  it's  all  our  fault!"  Ger- 
ald paused  and  stared  into  the  sunshine.  "It's 

no  use  talking,  of  course "  he  continued, 

as  Mabel  remained  silent,  "but  I've  seen  a  good 
bit  of  that  sort  of  thing,  and  I  don't  mind  tell- 
ing you — eh?"  He  stopped  and  glanced  at  his 


190  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

companion,  "I  suppose  you  don't  agree  with 
me?" 

Mabel  had  turned  towards  him  with  a  quick 
movement.  "The  others  will  be  here  immedi- 
ately, Gerald,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Don't 
let's — Never  mind  just  now.  I "  she  hesi- 
tated. "I've  been  looking  forward  so  awfully 
to  seeing  you  and  to — to  talking  over  old  times. 
We  don't  seem  to  have  done  anything  but  argue 

about  things  that — that  don't  matter "  she 

paused  and  glanced  away. 

"Right  oh,  Mabel,"  Gerald  turned  apologeti- 
cally. "Sorry!  Didn't  mean  to  worry  you.  It's 
only  that  a  fellow  feels  rather  strongly  about 
— Never  mind — fire  away." 

"I  thought  we  might  have  such  a  nice  time 
here.  We  used  to  be  such  friends,  you 

know "  Mabel  bent  and  picked  up  her 

handkerchief,  which  had  fallen  beside  her. 

"All  right,  Mabel!"  Gerald  eyed  her  ap- 
prehensively. "All  right,  old  girl!  I  didn't 
mean  anything "  He  rose  and  moved  awk- 
wardly beside  the  sofa.  "Really!" 

His  companion  put  out  her  hand.  "Please 
forgive  me — I  haven't  meant  to  be  horrid!  It's 
just — well,  I  suppose  I'm  not  very  strong  yet 

—and "  she  dabbed  her  eyes  and  looked  up 

with  a  smile.  "It  wasn't  your  fault  a  bit — and 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  191 

I  was  foolish  to  mind  about  last  night — you 
couldn't  know  I  could  hear  you — It's  all  right!" 
She  smiled  again  and  prepared  to  rise. 

"Right  oh."  Gerald,  looking  somewhat 
harassed,  relinquished  her  hand.  "Thought  it 
was  all  right  about  that  last-night  business.  I'll 
give  young  Leslie  blazes !"  he  muttered  ir- 
ritably. 

"Mr.  Leslie?"  Mabel  glanced  up.  "Please 
don't!  He  didn't  say  anything." 

A  light  dawned  on  her  companion.  "Oh — 
you  mean  when  I  was  slanging  the  manager?" 

Mabel  rose  and  stood  beside  him.  "It  doesn't 

matter,  really "  she  repeated.  "Don't 

let's- 

Gerald  drew  back  a  little.  "I  simply  told 
him  I  didn't  think  much  of  his  rooms !  Where's 
the  harm  in  that?"  he  expostulated,  as  the  other 
remained  silent.  "Especially  as  we'd  wired  all 
over  the  place  to  have  'em  ready.  Of  course, 
I'm  sorry  it  disturbed  you  and  so  on — I've  told 
you  that,  but "  he  paused. 

"It  didn't,  Gerald — it  wasn't  that.  Please 
don't- 

" What  was  it  then?" 

Mabel  glanced  appealingly  at  the  speaker. 

Gerald's  face  clouded.  "You  mean  I  swore 
at  him?"  he  demanded. 


192  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

As  the  other  made  no  response,  he  turned 
and  stared  out  of  the  window.  "Well,  all  I 
can  say  is,  I  think  it's  rather  rot,  Mabel!"  he 
said  at  length.  "If  you've  never  heard  a  man 

swear  before Besides,  you  say  yourself  I 

couldn't  know  you  were  listening.  What  on 
earth's  the  use ?" 

"It  wasn't  what  you  said,  Gerald.  You  don't 
understand "  Mabel  stopped. 

"What  don't  I  understand?" 

"I'd  just — just  been  reading  your  letter, 
and- 

"Well?" 

"You  sounded  so  different — so  rough 

Oh,  I  don't  know "  Mabel  bent,  and,  res- 
cuing her  handkerchief  again,  moved  towards 
the  fireplace. 

Gerald  stared  at  her  back.  "I'm  hanged  if 
I  see  the  sense  in  all  this,"  he  said  after  a  pause. 
"I've  told  you  I'm  sorry!  What  on  earth's 
the  good  of  nagging ?" 

"I  haven't  done  that,  Gerald!"  Mabel  put 
an  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece  and  leaned  her 
forehead  on  her  hand. 

"Well,  it's  jolly  like  it!  What  was  the  use 
of  writing  and  asking  me  to  come  here " 

"I  only  suggested  it." 

"Well,  same  thing!     What's   the  good  of 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  193 

doing  that  and  then  messing  up  things  like  this  ? 
I  daresay  you  don't  mean  any  harm  but  all  this 
about  last  night  is  such  rot!  I  thought  at  first 
when  your  nurse  told  me  you  were  in  such  a 
sweat,  that  young  Leslie  had  been  kicking  up  a 
row- 
Mabel  turned.  "Gerald!  Please  don't  speak 
to  me  like  that!" 

"Like  what?" 

"I  don't  want  to  know  what  you  and  Nurse 
Coxon  may  have  said  about  me.  And  I  should 
leave  Mr.  Leslie  out  of  it;  he,  at  least,  did  his 
best  to "  she  paused. 

"To  what?  Stop  my  swearing!"  Gerald 
sneered. 

Mabel  turned  back  to  the  fireplace. 

"Just  like  his  cheek!"  Her  companion 
laughed  contemptuously.  "He's  getting  a 
dashed  sight  too  much  side  on — if  I  had  him 
back  in  the  corps,  I'd  toe  that  out  of  him  fast 
enough!" 

Mabel  raised  her  head.  "That  is  a  generous 
way  to  speak  of  the  man  who  saved  your  life!" 

"Oh,  rot!"  Gerald  flung  angrily  to  the  win- 
dow. "There's  been  a  dashed  sight  too 
much " 

"That  sounded  better  from  him!  How  can 
you,  Gerald!"  Mabel's  voice  broke  and  she 


194  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

buried  her  face  in  her  handkerchief.  "Oh,  please 
go!" 

Removing  his  hands  from  his  pockets  her 
companion  turned  and  stared.  "Sorry,  Mabel," 
he  said,  after  a  pause.  As  she  made  no  sign, 
he  moved  towards  the  door.  "Oh,  all  right!" 
On  reaching  the  threshold  he  faced  about. 
"Sorry  I  lost  my  hair.  That's  all  rot  about 
Leslie,"  he  continued  awkwardly.  "He  and  I 
are  very  good  pals — you'll  see  when  you  meet 
him!"  Obtaining  no  response  he  felt  for  the 
handle.  "Well,  expect  I'd  better  be  going. 
Afraid  I've  tired  you.  Don't  expect  I'm  much 
good  with  ill  people,  you  know!"  he  added, 
mustering  up  a  smile. 

A  knock  sounded  on  the  door  behind  him. 

Mabel  glanced  up  from  her  handkerchief. 
"Don't  go!"  she  exclaimed,  dabbing  her  eyes 
and  tidying  her  hair. 

"But — er "  Gerald  looked  at  her  un- 
easily. 

"No — please!"  As  the  knock  was  repeated, 
she  slipped  to  the  sofa;  her  companion,  hastily 
relinquishing  the  handle,  retreated  to  the  cen- 
tre of  the  room  and  picked  up  a  book  from 
the  table. 

"Come  in!"  cried  Mabel. 


CHAPTER   X 

THE  door  opened  and  Lady  Grace  entered 
hastily. 

"Mabel,  dear "  catching  sight  of  Lord 

Daneborough,  she  paused. 

"Good  afternoon,  Cousin  Grace,"  Mabel  rose 
and  went  forward  smiling.  "You  know  Gerald, 
don't  you?" 

"Yes,  we  met  this  morning."  The  newcomer's 
tone  betrayed  a  momentary  decrease  of  enthu- 
siasm. "Mabel,  dear!"  she  continued,  "are  you 
able  to  see  visitors?" 

"Well,"  Mabel  hesitated. 

"Because  I've  got  Mr.  Leslie  outside,"  Lady 
Grace's  voice  sank  confidentially.  "He's  quite 
presentable — charming,  in  fact!  May  I  bring 
him  in?" 

"Yes,  certainly — if  he's  there.  I'm  not 
very " 

"Not  very  what?" 

"Oh,  nothing!"  Mabel  smiled  quickly. 
"Bring  him  in,  do." 

195 


196  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Hugh  is  here  too.  Do  you  mind  him?"  Lady 
Grace  moved  towards  the  door. 

"Not  at  all."  Turning  to  the  mirror  Mabel 
adjusted  the  large  hat  of  black  straw  she  was 
wearing. 

"Mr.  Leslie!  Hugh!"  Lady  Grace  called, 
"you  can  come  in." 

Steps  sounded  on  the  threshold  and  General 
Mackworth  and  his  companion  entered. 

Mabel  greeted  the  former  with  a  friendly 
smile  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"I'm  quite  well,  thanks,"  he  responded,  in 
reply  to  her  enquiry.  "May  Aunt  Grace  sit 
down?" 

"Yes,  of  course."     Mabel  looked  surprised. 

"She's  going  to  introduce  Mr.  Leslie  to  you," 
explained  the  general.  "You  and  the  bar- waiter 
are  the  only  people  left  in  the  hotel  he  doesn't 
know.  Sit  down,  Aunt,  you're  all  of  a  twit- 
ter." 

"Nonsense,  Hugh!"  Lady  Grace  turned  her 
back  on  her  nephew.  "Mabel  dear,  this  is  Mr. 
Leslie." 

The  latter,  looking  very  tall  and  boyish  in 
a  suit  of  white  flannels,  stepped  forward. 

"How  d'you  do?"  Mabel,  glancing  pleas- 
antly at  him,  held  out  her  hand ;  then  she  turned 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  197 

to  Daneborough  who  had  remained  by  the  table 
in  the  centre  of  the  room. 

"Have  you  met  General  Mackworth,  Ger- 
ald?" 

"Yes,  thanks.    We  met  this  morning." 

"Aunt  Grace  introduced  us,"  confirmed  the 
general,  "I  don't  want  to  disillusion  you,"  he 
continued,  addressing  Leslie,  "but  I  think  you 
ought  to  know  that  to-day's  performance  is  a 
mere  nothing  to  my  aunt.  Introducing  people 
is  what  I  believe  they  call  in  America,  her  'long 
suit.' " 

"Do  be  quiet,  Hugh,"  Lady  Grace  stared 
suspiciously  at  the  speaker. 

"It's  no  mere  social  convention  with  her — 
it's  an  art.  When  I  was  at  home  last,  she  steered 
me  alongside  a  lady  and  said,  'Hugh,  let  me 
introduce  you  to  Mrs.  So-and-so  who  has 
brought  us  that  beautiful  new  religion  from  the 
Congo!  Mrs.  So-and-so,  this  is  my  nephew, 
General  Mackworth,  who — er — has  just  recov- 
ered from  a  severe  attack  of  influenza.' ' 

"Hugh— that  is  not  true!" 

"I'm  sure  it's  not,  Cousin  Grace,"  exclaimed 
Mabel,  laughing,  "why  do  you  let  him  tease 
you?"  Putting  her  hand  on  the  older  lady's 
shoulder,  she  turned  with  her  towards  the  win- 
dow. "Won't  you  take  Gerald  out  and  show 


198  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

him  the  view  from  the  loggia?  It  is  always  so 
lovely  at  sunset." 

As  Daneborough  and  her  cousin  stepped 
through  the  French  window,  Mabel  looked 
at  Leslie  who  was  standing  before  the  fire- 
place. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Leslie?"  she  said, 
seating  herself  on  the  sofa  and  pointing  to  a 
chair. 

"Thanks" — Leslie  hesitated  and  glanced  at 
Mackworth  who  was  turning  over  the  pages  of 
a  book  at  the  table. 

Mabel  smiled.  "There  are  plenty  of  chairs! 
Come  and  sit  down,  General  Mackworth,"  she 
added,  over  her  shoulder. 

"Thanks  very  much.  Do  you  mind  if  I  look 
over  your  books  for  a  moment?  I've  finished 
the  last  one  you  lent  me." 

"Certainly."  Mabel  turned  again  to  Leslie; 
with  a  slight  gesture  she  motioned  to  the  chair 
beside  her. 

"Do  you  know  Italy  well?"  she  asked,  as 
the  other  seated  himself. 

"No."  Leslie  met  her  gaze  shyly.  "This  is 
my  first  visit,"  he  explained. 

"I  envy  you!" 

"Yes,  I  daresay."  Leslie  nodded  and  his  face 
brightened.  "I've  never  seen  anything  in  the 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  199 

world  to  touch  it!  Not  that  I've  seen  much," 
he  added. 

"But  you've  travelled  a  great  deal,  haven't 
you?" 

"Oh,  no!  I'd  never  left  home — except  a 
couple  of  years  away  at  school — until  I  went 
to  South  Africa  eight  months  ago." 

"You've  seen  a  good  deal  since  then." 

Leslie  glanced  away.  "Yes,  I  suppose  I 
have,"  he  said  indifferently.  "Not  the  sort  of 
thing  I  mean  though.  South  Africa's  all  right 
in  some  ways,  but  it's  the  most  different  thing 
in  the  world  from  this." 

"But  it  is  beautiful  too,  isn't  it — many  parts 
of  it?" 

"Yes,  in  a  way.  The  Cape  peninsula  is  lovely 
— round  Table  Mountain.  If  you  like  that  sort 
of  thing." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  Mabel  glanced  at 
him.  "I've  met  very  few  people  who've  been 
out  there  so  I  am  interested." 

"Well,  I  mean  that  it  doesn't  appeal  to  one 
very  much — at  least  it  didn't  to  me.  The  trees 
and  flowers  are  wonderful  and  I've  never  seen 
such  sunsets  anywhere  as  one  gets  looking  over 
the  Cape  Flats  to  the  Blue  Bergs;  but  it's  all 
so — so  frightfully  clear  and  hard  somehow — 
like  a  coloured  photograph,  you  know."  He 


200  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

paused.  "I  can't  explain  very  well,  but  if  you 
tried  to  paint  out  there,  you'd  see  what  I  mean." 

"Perhaps  the  light  is  too  brilliant — you  don't 
get  what  artists  call  'atmosphere.' ' 

"I  daresay,"  acquiesced  Leslie,  doubtfully; 
"one  doesn't  of  course;  but — well,  not  only 
that — it  isn't  interesting  somehow — just  to  look 
at — the  way  other  places  are.  You'd  never 
think  of — of  making  up  stories  about  it — at 
least  not  the  sort  I  mean,  any  more  than  you'd 
want  to  paint  it.  It  hasn't  any "  he  hesi- 
tated. 

"Romance?"  suggested  Mabel. 

Leslie  nodded  quickly.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "that's 

it !"    It  hasn't  any  of  that.    Whereas  here 

turning  in  his  chair  he  gazed  through  the  arch 
of  the  loggia,  past  the  great  cypress  to  the  vine- 
covered  slopes  glowing  in  the  golden  afternoon 
light. 

"Yes,"  said  Mabel,  as  the  other  remained 
silent.  "People  have  made  up  stories  and 
painted  pictures,  here — always." 

Her  companion  nodded  again,  and,  meeting 
her  eyes,  reddened  beneath  his  sunburn.  "I 
expect  you  think  I've  been  talking  rather  rot," 
he  said  awkwardly,  "I've  never  said  that  about 
the  Cape  before — don't  believe  I  ever  even 
thought  it  exactly.  It's  only  since  coming  here, 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  201 

you  know,  and "  he  paused  and  glanced  at 

her  quickly. 

"Yes — I  understand."  Bending,  she  picked 
up  a  cushion  that  had  slipped  towards  the  floor. 
"But  surely  there's  romance  out  there  too,"  she 
said.  "Adventure  and  war  always  mean  that; 
think  of  how  much  you've  seen  and  done."  She 
looked  up. 

Leslie's  face  clouded.  "Oh,  that — I  didn't 
mean  that  sort  of  thing!"  He  turned  away. 

Mabel  gazed  at  him  curiously;  then,  smil- 
ing, she  leaned  forward.  "I  beg  your  pardon," 

she  said,  "I  do  see.  General  Mackworth " 

she  continued,  raising  her  voice,  "do  come  and 
be  sociable!  Mr.  Leslie  has  been  telling  me 
about  South  Africa.  He  says  Cape  Town  is 
like  a  coloured  photograph  and  that  the  veld 
isn't  romantic.  I  am  so  disappointed.  I  had 
always  wanted  to  go  there;  it  sounded  so  big 
and- 

"I  expect  it's  its  size  that  doesn't  appeal 
to  him,"  Mackworth  closed  a  book  he  had  been 
examining,  and  moved  towards  her.  "Mr. 
Leslie's  the  greatest  living  authority  on  the 
number  of  steps  it  takes  to  get  from  one  end 
of  it  to  the  other,  you  know." 

Mabel  laughed.  "I  forgot  about  that!  I 
was  thinking  of  life  out  there  at  ordinary  times 


202  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

—the  riding  and  camping.  I've  never  done 
that  sort  of  thing,  but  I'm  sure  I  should  love 
it." 

"You  ought  to  talk  to  Daneborough,  Mrs. 
Arbuthnot.  He's  got  the  horseman's  point  of 
view  about  the  veld;  Mr.  Leslie's  got  the 
horse's.  It  probably  gives  him  sore  back  and 
blind  staggers  to  listen  to  you!" 

"Oh,  very  well!"  Mabel  turned  laughingly 
to  Leslie.  "Let's  talk  of  something  else.  You 
sketch,  don't  you?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.    I'm  not  much  good  though." 

"But  you  must  try  here.  Every  one  who  can 
paint,  does.  Don't  they,  General?" 

"That's  rather  understating  it,  I  should  say," 
rejoined  Mackworth. 

"Well,  some  of  the  productions  one  sees  about 
the  hotel  are  pretty  bad,  I  admit!"  said  Mabel, 
smiling.  "But  I'm  sure  Mr.  Leslie  ought  to 
see  what  he  can  do.  There  are  such  lovely  bits 
among  the  valleys  behind,"  she  continued,  turn- 
ing to  the  younger  man. 

"Yes;  I  had  a  look  round  this  morning.  I 
want  to  try  some  of  those  little  towns  high  up 
on  the  hills — with  the  church  towers  and  the 

pink  and  yellow  and  white  houses You 

know  the  ones  I  mean?" 

"Yes,  they're  quite  fascinating,"  agreed  Ma- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  203 

bel.  "You're  not  going?"  she  added,  as  Mack- 
worth  held  out  his  hand. 

"Afraid  I  must,"  replied  the  latter.  "Er— 
I  suppose  you  don't  feel  like  coming  for  a 
turn?" 

Mabel  hesitated.  "I'd  love  to,  but "  she 

glanced  up  with  a  smile.  "I've  had  a  headache 
all  day,  so  perhaps  I'd  better  keep  quiet;  d'you 
mind?" 

"Not  a  bit!"  replied  the  other  hastily. 
"Quite  right.  Very  sorry  you're  feeling  seedy 
though,"  he  added,  with  a  quick  look  of  con- 
cern, "I  had  hoped  you  wrere  better." 

"Oh,  but  I  am!  This  is  nothing.  I  just  had 
rather  a  bad  night — at  least  I  didn't  sleep 
much."  Mabel  glanced  at  her  watch.  "Won't 
you  stay  to  tea  and  go  for  your  walk  after- 
wards? It  will  be  here  directly." 

"Thanks  very  much "  replied  Mackworth 

doubtfully. 

"Do.  Be  kind  and  go  and  see  how  Cousin 
Grace  and  Gerald  are  getting  on,"  she  added, 
smiling.  "I'm  so  afraid  of  their  quarrelling!" 

As  the  older  man  stepped  on  to  the  loggia, 
Mabel  sank  back  against  the  cushions  and  mo- 
tioned to  Leslie  to  sit  down  again. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  Italy,"  she  said,  after  a 
pause. 


204  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"You  do,  too?" 

"I  love  it.  I  adore  my  own  country,  but  Italy 
holds  one  of  the  keys  to  my  heart." 

"I  think  I  understand  that!"  Her  com- 
panion looked  up  eagerly.  "I  like  my  own  coun- 
try, too,  awfully,  and  I  hated  leaving  it.  But 
since  I  came  here  I  feel  as  if — well,  just  what 
you  say — as  if  something  had  been  unlocked 
inside  me." 

"Do  you?" 

"Yes— I  felt  it  awfully— last  night "  He 

stopped — "After  I  got  back,  you  know " 

he  continued  awkwardly,  as  the  other  remained 
silent.  "In  my  own  room.  I  can't  describe 
exactly,  but  when  I  turned  out  the  light  and 
opened  the  shutters,  the  beauty  and  the  soft- 
ness seemed  to  come  in  with  the  dark  and  simply 
fill  the  room.  I  wonder  if  you  understand?" 

"I  think  I  do.  I've  often  felt  it."  Mabel's 
voice  was  low.  "I  felt  it  last  night,  too."  Rais- 
ing her  face  slowly,  she  met  Leslie's  eyes. 

Her  companion  blushed  and,  jumping  up, 
stared  at  the  "Vision  of  S.  Ursula"  on  the  wall 
beside  him. 

"Is  that  an  Italian  picture?"  he  asked,  after 
a  pause. 

"Yes,  a  very  famous  one." 

"It  looks  wonderful!"     Leslie  gazed  at  the 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  205 

big  photograph.  "I've  never  seen  anything  like 
it.  I  want  awfully  to  learn  about  the  pictures 
out  here,"  he  continued,  turning  away.  "I  sup- 
pose you  know  a  lot?" 

"Not  much— a  little." 

"Will  you  tell  me — would  you  mind?" 

"No."  Mabel  spoke  shortly.  "I  mean  I  will, 
of  course,  if  you  want  me  to,"  she  added. 

"Only "  Rising,  she  smoothed  her  dress 

and  crossed  to  the  hearth. 

"Only  what?"  Leslie  turned  and  looked  at 
her. 

Mabel  fingered  a  vase  of  flowers  on  the  man- 
telpiece. "Oh,  I  don't  know!"  She  glanced 
at  him.  "You  are  rather  an  unexpected  per- 
son, you  know." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,"  she  turned  back  to  the  vase.  "I'd 
somehow  formed  quite  a  different  impression 
about  you  and — it  was  silly,  I  suppose,  but  I 
never  imagined  you  caring  about  Italy  and 
things  of  that  sort.  I'd  only  heard  of  you  in 
connection  with  Africa  and  the  war,  and  it 
seemed  natural  to  think  you'd  care  most  for 
that  kind  of  life.  Men  who've  lived  out  there 
seem  to — get  like  that." 

"But  I'd  only  been  out  there  a  short  time." 

"I  always  forget  that.    You  seem  to  hate  my 


206  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

saying  so—  Mabel  glanced  over  her  shoul- 

der, "but  you  managed  to  do  a  good  deal,  you 
know!" 

Her  companion  remained  silent. 

"Why  do  you  mind?"  Mabel's  voice  soft- 
ened. "Every  one  knows  it." 

"I  didn't  really."  The  other  looked  down. 
"It  was  all  luck,  you  know." 

"Do  you  call  carrying  a  man  hundreds  of 
miles  on  your  back,  luck?" 

"Not  exactly — I  mean— 

"Do  you  mean  staying,  when  you  might 
have  saved  yourself?  Is  that  what  you  call 
luck?" 

The  other  made  no  reply. 

"Is  it?"  Mabel  looked  up  rather  breath- 
lessly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  Leslie  turned  with  a 
brusque  gesture  to  the  table  by  the  sofa  and, 
snatching  up  a  pencil,  fingered  it  so  roughly 
that  the  point  broke.  "Please  don't!  I  know 
awfully  little  about  Africa — really  I  do — 
and "  He  stopped  and,  dropping  the  pen- 
cil on  the  cloth,  moved  towards  the  window. 
"Well,  I  just  can't  talk  about  it!" 

Mabel  watched  him  over  her  shoulder. 
"Don't  go  away,"  she  said  gently.  "I  think  I 
understand." 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  207 

"Eh?"  Her  companion  faced  round  and 
stared. 

"Yes."    Mabel  met  his  eyes.    "I  understand 

and "  she  paused.    "I  think  it  splendid!— 

Much  more  splendid  than  to  do  what  you  did. 
It  may  be  easy  to  some  people  to  be  brave,  but, 
to  think  as  little  of  it  as  you  do — I  don't  believe 

many  men  would  be  like  that;  and "  her 

voice  sank — "and  you  are  only  a  boy!"  With 
a  quick  movement  she  turned  back  to  the  man- 
telpiece. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  a  knock  on  the 
door.  Mabel  glanced  up. 

"There  are  the  others!"  She  moved  from  the 
fireplace;  catching  sight  of  her  companion  she 
stopped.  "What  is  it?"  Her  eyes  were  both 
puzzled  and  hurt.  "I  meant  it  all  so  much — 
you  can't  mind " 

"Don't!"  cried  Leslie  suddenly,  "please  don't 
— I- 

The  knock  was  repeated  more  sharply. 

"All  right — never  mind — I  won't!"  Mabel 
smiled,  moving  past  him  to  the  sofa.  "Come 
in!  Cheer  up!"  she  murmured,  as  the  door 
opened.  "I  do  understand." 

"Well,  Mabel!"  Bishop  Raymond  appeared 
on  the  threshold  and  came  forward  with  out- 
stretched hand. 


208  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Cousin  St.  John!"  Mabel  ran  to  meet  him. 
"I  am  so  glad!"  She  took  the  newcomer's 
hand  in  both  of  hers.  "How  splendid  it  is  to 
see  you  again!" 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  the  bishop  gazed 
at  her  affectionately.  "You  are  wonderful, 
Mabel,  you've  scarcely  changed  at  all!" 

"Oh,  nonsense,  St.  John !"  The  other  blushed 
and  laughed.  "Why,  we  haven't  seen  each  other 
for — how  long  is  it?" 

"A  long  time,  I'm  afraid!" 

"Yes,  don't  let's  talk  about  it.  Come  and  sit 
down."  Putting  her  hand  on  his  arm  she  led 
him  towards  the  sofa.  "Good  morning,  Cousin 
Peter,"  she  added,  smiling  over  her  companion's 
shoulder.  "How  are  you?" 

Sir  Peter,  who  had  entered  with  Bishop  Ray- 
mond, removed  a  hand  from  his  breeches  pocket, 
and  prodded  a  forefinger  at  the  sunset.  "Eve- 
nin',"  he  remarked. 

"Yes,  I  know!"  Mabel  laughed.  "I'm  very 
much  ashamed  of  myself  for  being  so  late — 
especially  to-day,  too.  You've  met  Mr.  Leslie, 
haven't  you?" 

"Yes,  twice."  The  baronet  grunted. 
"Breakfast,  and  asleep  after  lunch." 

"Do  you  mean  you  met  him  in  your  dreams?" 

"Sort  of.     Grace  turned  up  with  him  again 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  209 

when  I'd  stuck  a  rug  round  me  and  gone  to 
sleep  in  a  chair  on  the  terrace.  Says  she  thought 
I  was  the  old  German  woman  she  wants  to  in- 
troduce him  to!  Said  she  only  saw  my  legs." 
Sir  Peter  waggled  a  knickerbocker  and  a  wrin- 
kled grey  shooting  stocking.  "Silly  rot!" 

"Lady  Grace  tried  to  introduce  him  to  me, 
too!"  remarked  Bishop  Raymond,  smiling,  "but 
I  reminded  her  that  Mr.  Leslie  and  I  are  old 
friends." 

Mabel  turned  to  the  speaker  with  an  amused 
glance.  The  bishop,  since  his  arrival  in  Eu- 
rope, though  neglecting  to  don  his  episcopal 
apron  and  gaiters,  had  so  far  followed  conven- 
tion as  to  lay  aside  the  nondescript  garments 
he  employed  in  his  diocese;  his  tall  figure  was 
now  clothed  in  a  black  jacket  and  waistcoat 
and  a  pair  of  rather  shabby  black  trousers 
which,  with  a  clerical  collar,  made  his  weather- 
tanned  face  and  neck,  and  knotted,  roughened 
hands  even  more  conspicuous  in  ordinary  so- 
ciety than  they  would  otherwise  have  been. 

"Please  sit  down,  all  of  you!"  Mabel  moved 
to  the  bell.  "I'll  ring  for  tea."  As  she  pressed 
the  button  another  knock  sounded  at  the  door. 
"Ah,  there  it  is,  I  expect.  Avanti!" 

The  handle  turned.  "May  I  come  in?"  en- 
quired a  voice. 


210  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Yes,  Dottore,  do  come  in!  We  are  just 
going  to  have  tea."  Mabel  turned  from  the  bell 
to  greet  the  owner  of  the  voice. 

"How  do  you  do,  Meesis  Arbut'not?"  The 
newcomer  shut  the  door  behind  him  and  hur- 
ried forward  with  outstretched  hand  and  a 
beaming  combination  of  professional  concern 
and  friendliness.  "How  are  you  to-day? 
Better?" 

"Yes,  thank  you."  Mabel's  face  lit  up  bright- 
ly. "Really  better!  I've  had  a  little  headache, 
but  nothing  of  importance." 

"Ha!"  The  other  gave  her  a  sharp  look  and 
slipped  his  fingers  over  her  wrist.  "You  must 
not  get  too  tired.  But,"  he  burst  into  a  reas- 
suring smile,  "you  wrill  be  all  raight!"  Drop- 
ping her  arm  with  an  encouraging  tap  of  the 
thumb,  he  stepped  forward.  "How  do  you  do, 
Beeshop?  How  do  you  do,  Sir  Peter?"  Shak- 
ing hands  effusively  with  each,  he  turned  to 
Leslie,  "How  do  you  do?" 

"You  know  Mr.  Leslie?"  enquired  Mabel. 

"Yais,  oh  yais!  Lady  Grace  introduced  us 
zis  morning,  and  I  think  perhaps  another  time. 
No?  She  is  saw  kind!" 

Dr.  Cesare  Florio  spoke  English  with  en- 
gaging fluency  and  an  admirable  mastery  of  the 
vocabulary,  but  he  had  never  troubled  much 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  211 

about  pronunciation,  and  Mabel  averred  that 
she  relied  entirely  on  his  version  of  British  vow- 
els for  surmounting  her  difficulties  with  those 
of  the  Italian  tongue.  He  was  an  alert,  very 
attractive-looking  little  man  with  the  fair  com- 
plexion and  light-coloured  hair  not  uncommon 
among  the  Milanese.  A  true  Italian  in  his 
vivacious  utterance  and  gesture,  he  possessed 
a  gay  catholicity  of  outlook  that  adapted  itself 
to  the  minds  of  his  patients  with  results  proba- 
bly no  less  beneficial  to  their  health  than  the 
effects  of  his  medicines  and  .electric  baths  on 
their  bodies  and  nerves.  He  was  extremely  in- 
telligent and  the  northern  strain  in  his  blood 
came  out  in  a  shrewd  judgment  and  profes- 
sional thoroughness,  very  reassuring  to  those 
who,  like  Lady  Grace,  looked  with  some 
suspicion  on  his  more  volatile  character- 
istics. 

"Mabel!"  Lady  Grace  put  her  head  in  at 
the  French  window. 

"Yes,  Cousin  Grace." 

"Is  Mr.  Leslie  there?  Oh,  yes,  there  you  are!" 
She  beckoned  excitedly.  "Please  come  quick! 
Baroness  von  What's-her-name  is  down  below. 
She  wants  to  meet  you  dreadfully,  and  she  can't 
climb  stairs,  so  it's  such  a  good  opportunity. 
Quick!" 


212  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Leslie  backed.  "Do  you  mean  I  must  go 
down — I  really  don't  think— 

"No!  I'll  introduce  you  from  here — she's 
just  below  in  the  garden.  Quick!" 

"Come  on,  man!"  General  Mackworth 
waved  over  his  aunt's  shoulder.  "Bring  a  chair 
to  stand  on — she's  as  blind  as  a  bat." 

"Baroness!  Baroness!"  Lady  Grace,  push- 
ing her  nephew  aside,  craned  over  the  balus- 
trade, while  Leslie  moved  forward  unwillingly. 

"Louder,  Aunt!"  urged  Mackworth.  "She's 
as  deaf  as  a  post!" 

"Here's  Mr.  Leslie,  Baroness!"  Lady  Grace 
raised  her  voice.  "Baroness!  Oh,  she  doesn't 
hear,"  she  exclaimed,  "she's  going!" 

"Stick  to  it!  She's  got  no  pace — she's  wrong 
on  both  feet!  Don't  give  in,  Aunt!"  Mack- 
worth  waved  liked  a  bandmaster  to  the  others. 
"Now  then,  all  together!" 

"She's  gone!"  Lady  Grace  turned  disap- 
pointedly. "I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  silly, 
Hugh."  The  speaker  stared  with  much  re- 
sentment at  her  nephew,  as  she  turned  towards 
the  sitting-room.  "I  suppose  you  think  it's 
clever  to  spend  your  time  playing  the  fool,  and 
preventing  people  older  than  yourself  from 
doing  things  that  really  matter!" 

Mackworth  stood  aside  politely  to  let  her 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  213 

pass.  "It's  become  second  nature,  Aunt.  I've 
got  all  my  promotion  from  a  grateful  War  Of- 
fice for  doing  that!" 

"Well,"  responded  Lady  Grace  viciously. 
"You'd  better  take  care!  I  sat  next  to  Sir 
Michael  de  Bathe-Hunter  the  other  evening 
and  he  was  talking  about  you.  D'you  know 
what  he  said?" 

"I  hope  the  old  boy  didn't  swear!  The  mel- 
lowing effects  of  evening  take  him  that  way 
sometimes." 

"Well,"  rejoined  the  other  with  hostile  em- 
phasis, "if  you  wish  to  know  he  did,  and  I  quite 
understood  it !  He  said  the  War  Office — for  his 
sins — these  were  his  words — had  sent  you  to  be 
his  chief  of  something-or-other " 

"Staff.  I  remember.  I'd  been  very  wicked 
too  about  that  time!" 

"At  some  manosuvres,"  continued  Lady 
Grace,  drowning  the  interruption.  "And  when 
you  left,  he  turned  to  old  Lord  What's-his- 
name,  and  he  said,  'Well,  they  seem  to  think  a 
lot  of  Mackworth  at  the  War  Office.  Per- 
sonally speaking,  I  think  he's  damned  flippant !' 
Those  were  his  very  words — he  repeated  them 
several  times.  So  there!" 

"Hurrah!"  Her  nephew  cut  a  caper.  "My 
future  is  assured!  When  I'm  Commander-in- 


214  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Chief  I'll  pile  up  old  Hunter's  grave  with 
crosses  and  ribbons  a  foot  high!" 

Lady  Grace  sniffed.  "Well,  don't  say  I 
didn't  warn  you !  Mabel,  dear,"  she  continued, 
turning  her  back  to  her  nephew,  "are  we  going 
to  have  tea  ?" 

"Yes,  Cousin  Grace.  Mr.  Leslie,  will  you 
ring  again,  please?" 

"You  mustn't  make  Mr.  Leslie  move  about, 
dear,"  said  the  older  lady,  taking  her  knitting 
from  behind  a  flower-pot  on  a  side  table,  and 
seating  herself  in  the  armchair.  "He's  got  a 
very  sore  head." 

"I'm  so  sorry "  Mabel  started  and 

glanced  at  Leslie  as  he  moved  across  the  room. 
"I  didn't  notice " 

"You  couldn't  be  expected  to  notice,  dear — 
his  hair  covers  the  place.  But  he  cut  it  quite 
badly  last  night.  Dr.  Florio  says  it  might  have 
been  quite  serious." 

"Aw  no,  Lady  Grace!"  Dr.  Florio  looked 
up  from  an  animated  discussion  on  Bantu  cra- 
nial development  with  Bishop  Raymond.  "Not 
serious — only  a  leetle  troublesome.  I  have  suf- 
fered more  than  Mr.  Leslie,  for  I  have  lost  my 
photographic  globe." 

"Oh,"  Lady  Grace  began  counting  her 
stitches. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  215 

"Yais!  Ze  manager — he  is  a  good  fellow, 
but — how  you  say — a — bit  of  an  ass.  He  for- 
got to  remove  my  red  globe  from  over  my  lab- 
oratory-table next  door,  and  when  Mr.  Leslie 
lift  his  head  suddenly  last  night  from  his  writ- 
ing, he  smashed  it,  and  his  own  head !  Mr.  Les- 
lie— he  is  all  raight — he  is  only — how  you  say — 
bent  in  the  lid?  No?"  the  speaker  giggled  en- 
quiringly. "But  my  globe  it  is  broken,  and  now 
I  must  send  to  Milano,  perhaps — who  knows — 
to  Parigi — for  another!" 

"I'm  so  sorry."  Mabel  rose  from  the  sofa; 
moving  towards  the  table,  she  glanced  beneath 
the  lace  shade  of  the  centre  light,  then,  turning, 
met  Leslie's  gaze  fixed  on  her  across  the  room, 
in  agitated  enquiry.  With  a  slight  nod  she 
strolled  to  the  window.  "There's  the  last  of  the 
sun,"  she  remarked,  placing  one  foot  on  to  the 
sill. 

As  Leslie  crossed  the  room  to  her  side  a  knock 
sounded  on  the  door.  "One  moment "  Ma- 
bel paused.  "Avanti!  Take  care!"  she  whis- 
pered, as  her  companion,  in  his  haste,  almost 
tripped  over  her. 

The  door  opened  and  a  waiter  bearing  a  tray 
loaded  with  cups  and  saucers,  edged  into  the 
room,  followed  by  Nurse  Coxon. 

"You  can  clear  those  things  and  put  it  there." 


216  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Mabel  pointed  to  the  centre  table.  "Will  you 
pour  out  tea,  Nurse,  please?"  she  added,  "I'm 
just  going  to  look  at  the  sunset." 

Nurse  Coxon  nodded  stiffly ;  Mabel,  with  Les- 
lie at  her  heels,  passed  out  of  the  window,  and 
moved  along  the  loggia. 

The  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  mountains. 
Within  the  sitting-room  the  light  faded  rapidly, 
and  shadows  of  the  stone  balustrade  which,  a 
moment  before,  had  lain  fantastically  elongated 
on  the  polished  floor  by  the  French  window,  dis- 
solved into  the  gathering  dusk;  a  bat  flitted  in 
and  out  of  the  arch  of  the  loggia.  Voices  rose 
from  the  pier;  a  sudden  tattoo  of  paddles  beat 
on  the  still  water,  a  bell  clanged  and  the  evening 
steamer  bound  for  Mennaggio  and  Colico 
glided  in  a  long  curve  past  the  lower  terrace  and 
disappeared  round  the  darkening  outline  of  the 
promontory. 

"What  sort  of  a  globe  were  you  using?" 
Mackworth  turned  from  watching  the  boat's  de- 
parture and  joined  Dr.  Florio  at  the  tea-table. 

"Just  an  ordinary  one  but  with  red  glass — 
very  dark — how  you  say — dyed? — for  my  pho- 
tographs." Dr.  Florio  handed  a  cup  to  Lady 
Grace. 

"Humph,"  remarked  the  latter,  laying  aside 
her  knitting.  "I  hope  you  got  it  all  out  of  his 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  217 

head!  Broken  glass  is  always  horrid — dyed 
pieces  sound  very  dangerous." 

The  other  giggled.  "I  wish  I  could  do  with 
my  globe  out  of  Mr.  Leslie's  head,  laike  zoze — 
what  you  call — conjurors? — do  with  ze  eggs — 
pull  it  out  whole!"  He  went  back  to  the  table, 
and  after  exchanging  a  few  words  with  Nurse 
Coxon  took  his  cup  and  joined  Daneborough 
and  Mackworth  at  the  fireplace. 

"Any  one  seen  a  paper?"  Sir  Peter  gulped 
down  his  tea  and  turned  to  the  others. 

"I  have  the  Times  here."  Bishop  Raymond 
looked  up  from  examining  Mabel's  photo- 
graphs. "I  see  both  Vesey- Vivian  and  Robert- 
son are  coming  home,"  he  added,  putting  down 
his  cup  and  taking  the  newspaper  from  his 
pocket. 

"Is  that  the  Capt.  Robertson  every  one  is 
talking  about,  who  did  so  well?"  enquired  Lady 
Grace.  "I  should  like  to  meet  him." 

"Well,  that  won't  be  difficult,"  replied  the 
bishop,  smiling,  as  he  handed  the  Times  to  Sir 
Peter.  "He  and  I  are  old  enemies,  so  I  suppose 
I  must  look  him  up  when  he  arrives — he's  been 
invalided." 

"Hang  it,  Grace!"  Sir  Peter  glanced  across 
at  his  wife.  "Don't  let's  start  this  Leslie  devil- 
ry with  some  other  chap  directly  we  get  back!" 


218  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Peter!"  Lady  Grace  stared  and  motioned 
towards  Bishop  Raymond. 

"Sorry,  Bishop.  Silly  rot,  all  the  same!"  Sir 
Peter,  whipping  on  his  eyeglasses,  folded  back 
the  newspaper.  "Let's  have  some  light!"  He 
peered  over  his  shoulder.  "Where's  the " 

Mackworth  and  Daneborough  paused  in  their 
conversation  and  looked  for  the  switch. 

"It's  here.  I'll  turn  it  on."  Nurse  Coxon 
put  down  her  cup  and  went  to  the  door. 

"Wait,  Nurse!"  Mabel  spoke  from  the  win- 
dow. "That  globe  is  spent." 

Nurse  Coxon  paused  and  glanced  over  her 
shoulder.  Mabel,  very  conspicuous  against  the 
last  glow  of  the  sky,  was  gazing  along  the  log- 
gia towards  the  next  room ;  as  the  nurse  looked, 
the  other  made  an  impatient  movement,  beck- 
oned, and  then,  with  an  air  of  relief,  turned  to 
enter  the  sitting-room.  "I  noticed  it  was  black," 
she  continued.  "Don't  ring — it  takes  for  ever 
to  get  it  changed.  Mr.  Leslie  is  bringing  an- 
other." 

Something  in  the  speaker's  tone  arrested  the 
nurse's  attention.  She  darted  a  glance  at  the 
lace  shade  above  the  table.  "Let's  see,  anyway!" 
she  said  sharply,  thrusting  out  her  hand ;  as  Les- 
lie entered,  carrying  another  globe,  she  switched 
on  the  light. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  219 

A  moment  of  amazement  followed. 

"What  the !"  Sir  Peter  twisting  in  his 

chair — the  Times  at  arm's  length  before  him — 
stared  over  his  shoulder. 

Lady  Grace,  in  the  act  of  putting  down  her 
cup  on  the  table,  started  back,  her  teaspoon  fall- 
ing to  the  floor  with  a  clatter. 

"Dio!"  Dr.  Florio  spun  round  from  the  fire- 
place. 

"Will  it  explode?"  Lady  Grace  retreated 
hastily. 

"It  is  all  right!"  cried  the  doctor,  pushing 
past  Mackworth  and  Daneborough.  "It  is  only 
my  globe — ma " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  crash,  the  tinkle  of 
broken  glass,  and  a  momentary  scuffle  of  feet; 
his  little  greenish  eyes  darted  to  the  window. 
Through  the  lurid  obscurity — the  aspect  of  the 
salon  being  for  the  moment  transformed  to  that 
of  an  unusually  large  photographer's  "dark 
room"  with  a  single  globe  glimmering  redly  in 
its  centre — he  saw  Trooper  Leslie  recoil  hur- 
riedly towards  the  loggia — he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Mrs.  Arbuthnot's  face  over  the  other's  shoul- 
der— of  a  hand  put  quickly  on  Leslie's  sleeve. 

"Ha,  ha!  It  is  all  right  I"  With  loud  shouts 
of  laughter  Dr.  Florio  jumped  forward.  "It 
is  my  globe!  You  are  surprised — I  also!"  He 


220  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

beamed  in  the  pantomime-like  glow  with  the  air 
of  a  benevolent  imp.  "Ze  manager  is — what 
you  say — a  silly  ass!  He  has  told  me  all  my 
globes  are  broken,  and  has  mixed  them  up  with 
ze  ordinary  ones !  Ha — ha !" 

"That's    likely!"      Nurse    Coxon    laughed 
shrilly.     "Any  one  could  see  with  half  an  eye 


"Ha-ha !"  The  doctor's  mirth  took  a  slightly 
ferocious  tone.  "You  think  so,  Nurse?  You 
are  very  clever — are  you  not?  See!"  Reaching 
up,  he  pulled  down  the  shade.  "Will  you  light 
zat  other  lamp,  General?  Mr.  Leslie  has 
dropped  ze  globe  he  brought." 

Mackworth  turned  and  switched  on  the  lamp 
standing  on  the  small  table. 

"So!  Turn  out  zis  one,  Nurse!  So."  While 
Dr.  Florio  rapidly  unscrewed  the  red  globe,  his 
companions  blinked  and  began  to  move  from 
the  table. 

"See!  It  is  just  what  Messis  Arbut'not  say 
"  the  doctor  held  up  his  hand,  "laike  a  spent 
one!  Zat  silly  waiter — he  knows  nothing,  he 
is  always  mixing  them  up !"  Slipping  the  globe 
into  his  pocket  he  turned  to  Mabel.  "Now  I 
must  say  good-bye.  Thank  you  very  much,  for 
my  globe  and  for  such  a  funny  sight!  Was  it 
not?"  He  beamed  at  Lady  Grace.  "We  all 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  221 

looked  like  devils  in  ze  Inferno  with  our  faces 
red  and  our  eyes  sticking  out — so—  '  Gesticu- 
lating1 and  going  off  into  renewed  giggles,  in 
which  the  others  joined  mildly,  he  moved  to- 
wards the  door. 

"Well,"  Lady  Grace  rolled  up  her  knitting, 
"we  must  be  going  too,  Peter." 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  you  must  have  had  enough 
of  us."  Bishop  Raymond  went  forward  with 
outstretched  hand.  "I  hope  you  won't  be  too 
tired." 

"Oh,  no,  not  a  bit!"  Mabel  smiled  and  shook 
hands.  "Good-bye,  General  Mackworth.  Good- 
bye, Gerald.  Bye-bye,  Cousin  Peter!" 

Dr.  Florio,  holding  open  the  door  as  the 
others  trooped  out,  waved  gaily.  "Good-bye 
again.  I  shall  see  you  later.  Have  a  good 
rest!" 

Mabel  smiled  and  turned  with  extended  hand 
to  Leslie.  For  a  moment  the  doctor  regarded 
the  two  with  a  lively  and  delighted  eye,  then, 
catching  sight  of  Nurse  Coxon  lingering  by  the 
table,  said  sharply,  "Come!  I  have  some  things 
to  give  you." 

The  nurse  gave  him  a  sulky  glance.  "I  must 
see  Mrs.  Arbuthnot  settled." 

"That  is  not  necessary.  You  talk  too  much, 
Nurse!"  Holding  the  door  wide,  the  speaker 


222  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

stared  at  his  subordinate  with  the  slightly  bulg- 
ing eye  that  Orientals  and  Latins  reserve  for 
domestic  purposes ;  as  the  other,  instantly  cowed, 
left  the  room,  he  waved  a  debonnair  hand  to- 
wards the  fireplace  and  slipped  after  her,  closing 
the  door  behind  him. 

"Good-bye!"    Mabel  held  out  her  hand. 

Leslie  took  her  fingers  in  his.  "Good-bye," 
he  said  without  raising  his  eyes. 

"What  was  the  matter?"  Mabel  gazed  at 
him.  "Why  were  you  so "  she  paused. 

"I  was  afraid — afraid  they'd  guess." 

"Yes,  I  know — it  was  awkward,  but " 

Mabel  looked  at  him  curiously.  "It  didn't  do 
any  good  to —  "  she  paused  again. 

Her  companion  glanced  up  quickly.  "I  was 
thinking  of  you!" 

Mabel's  eyes  cleared.  "I  think  I  see,"  she 
smiled.  "But  you  mustn't  ever  be  afraid,,  even 
for  my  sake.  That's  not  like  you — you  know!" 
With  a  final  shake  she  released  his  hand.  "Still, 
I  do  understand.  Good-night!" 

Leslie's  arm  dropped  to  his  side.  "Good- 
night." He  moved  towards  the  door;  at  the 
threshold  he  glanced  round.  Mabel  was  still 
smiling.  "Good-night — do  forgive  me!"  he 
said  hurriedly  and,  turning  the  handle,  left  the 
room. 


CHAPTER   XI 

"I  SHALL  be  sorry  to  leave  this  place." 
General  Mackworth  was  sitting  on  the  iow 
wall  of  the  terrace  by  the  lake,  meditatively 
picking  pieces  of  mortar  from  between  the 
stones  and  dropping  them  one  by  one  into  the 
sunlit  water  where,  seeming  to  pause  momen- 
tarily just  beneath  the  surface  to  invite  the  in- 
spection of  the  agonis  that  swarmed  among  the 
rocks,  they  sank  past  averted  noses  and 
affronted,  goggling  eyes,  into  the  green  dusk 
below.  As  he  spoke,  Mackworth,  letting  his 
arms  fall  by  his  side,  gazed  around  him. 

Spring  had  changed  in  the  last  few  days  to 
summer.  Each  morning  the  sun,  piercing  a 
dense  white  haze,  had  filled  the  terraces  and 
gardens  by  the  shore  with  pale  amber  reflec- 
tions that  foretold  noonday  heat.  The  after- 
noons had  become  a  gorgeous  blaze  of  light ;  the 
evenings  a  vast  glory  of  opalescence  and  gold 
amid  which  the  mountains  rose  in  smoky, 
shadowed  masses. 

223 


224  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Mabel  stirred  in  a  deck-chair  beside  him.  She 
lowered  her  parasol,  for,  as  her  companion 
spoke,  the  sun  dipped  behind  the  hills. 

"Don't  talk  of  going." 

Mackworth  turned  quickly.  Mabel  had  raised 
herself  in  her  chair  and  was  gazing  across  the 
water. 

"You  will  be  sorry  too?" 

With  the  vanishing  of  the  sun  a  great  quiet 
seemed  to  fall  on  the  shore;  a  fish  rose  close  to 
the  wall  and  disappeared  with  a  clumsy  splash. 

"I  have  never  been  so  happy  anywhere." 

Mackworth's  eyes  were  fixed  on  her.  "I  am 
glad!"  he  said  quietly. 

Mabel  glanced  round  and,  meeting  his  gaze, 
looked  back  to  the  distant  slopes.  "I  suppose 
one  is  always  happy  in  a  place  where  one  has 
begun  to  feel  strong  again,"  she  said.  "Be- 
sides I  have  longed  for  years  to  come  back  to 
Italy,  and  now  it  is  more  beautiful  than  my 
dreams.  How  lovely  it  would  be  if  one  could 
stay  here  always !" 

"Yes,"  responded  the  other  doubtfully.  "I 
expect  you'd  find  it  a  bit  lonely  though,  at 
times." 

Mabel  smiled.  "Oh,  I  was  wishing  for  the 
impossible!  That  we  could  all  remain  just  as 
we  are — always  well,  with  spring  always  turn- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  £25 

ing  to  summer — living  just  this  sort  of  life  and 
not  thinking  of  anything  else." 

Mackworth  extracted  a  small  stone  from  the 
coping  and  stared  at  it  thoughtfully.  "Unfor- 
tunately there's  always  'something  else,'  "  he 
said. 

"Why  should  there  be  ?  This  world  is  so  beau- 
tiful— so  full  of  peace.  The  things  that  tire 
one  and  make  life  difficult  are  out  of  tune  with 
days  such  as  we've  had  since  we  came  here — 
with  an  evening  like  this.  I'm  sure  there  must 
be  something  wrong  in  us !  We  long  for  beauty 
— for  rest,  and  nature  is  full  of  both,  but  we're 
always  thinking,  as  you  say,  of  'something 
else.'  " 

"I'm  afraid  life  is  like  that." 

"We've  made  it  so!" 

"I  doubt  it.  Desire,  in  one  form  or  another, 
must  have  been  there  from  the  beginning,  and 
the  moment  we  became  conscious,  it  must,  to 
paraphrase  the  song,  have 

*  .     .     .     marred  the  beauty  of  the  day 
And  mocked  the  sweet  nepenthe  of  the  night,' 

— till  it  was  satisfied." 

"Ah,  but  it  was  a  slave  who  sang  that!"  Ma- 
bel glanced  up.  "His  state  represents  the 


226  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

quintessence  of  what  I  dread  most  in  life — the 
unforgiveable  sin  against  nature!" 

Mackworth  smiled.  "He  would  have  sung 
the  same  if  he'd  been  in  love!" 

Mabel  made  no  response.  For  some  moments 
they  gazed  over  the  radiance  before  them  to  the 
far  shore,  stretching  hazy  and  unsubstantial, 
like  a  mirage  suspended  against  the  immense 
background  of  the  mountains  and  their  reflec- 
tion. 

"All  this" — Mackworth  moved  his  arm 
slightly,  "if  one  stops  to  look — if  one  feels  it 
at  all,  you  know — only  makes  the  desire  for 
'something  else,'  for  the  accomplishment  of  what 
we  want  in  life,  whatever  it  may  be,  suc- 
cess, love,"  he  paused,  "anything — infinitely 
stronger.  I  expect,  if  we  knew  the  truth,  that 
is  the  secret  of  sunsets  and  dawn,  just  as  it 
is  the  secret  of  beauty  in  flowers  and — in  peo- 
ple." 

Mabel  began  to  trace  patterns  in  the  gravel 
with  her  parasol.  "I  wonder,"  she  said,  "to  me, 
the  peace  and  loveliness  of  this  time  here  has 
made  existence,  merely  from  day  to  day,  pos- 
sible again,  after — well,  after  it  had  seemed 
no  longer  worth  while." 

"You  were  ill — and  tired.  Surely  that  was 
only  a  phase."  Her  companion  watched  the 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  227 

movements  of  the  parasol.     "You  do  find  it 
worth  while  now?"  he  added,  after  a  pause. 
Mabel  glanced  up.     "Yes." 
"Well?" 

The  other  scraped  some  lines  at  random  on  the 
path  before  she  replied.  "I  know  what  you 
mean.  But — well,  I  think  men  are  different. 
If  they  have  imagination,  I  suppose  it  is  only 
natural  that  emotion  such  as  that  awakened  by 
beauty  in  nature,  or  in  music,  let  us  say,  should 
express  itself  in  an  impulse  towards  what  you 
call  accomplishment.  But  women  aren't  like 
that — at  least  I  don't  think  so.  They  may,  at 
such  times,  desire  something  emotionally— 
she  paused,  "that  is  true,  but  it  is  the  fulfillment 
of  the  moment  they  want — not  any  further 
view." 

"But  a  man  feels  the  demand  of  the  moment 
too — only,  if  he  has  anything  in  him,  that's  the 
lesser  part." 

"The  greater  lies  in  the  future?" 
"Yes — I  was  going  to  say,  obviously." 
Mabel  smiled.     "I  knew  you  were.     Why?" 
"Why,  because  moments  such  as  we  are  talk- 
ing of,  don't  seem  to  me  of  any  value  or  impor- 
tance unless  they  influence  one's  life  as  a  whole. 
Excuse  the  'copy-book'  form  my  remarks  are 
taking " 


228  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"You  mean  that  otherwise  they  are  mere 
dreams  or,  if  some  one  else  happens  to  come  into 
them,  what  are  called  'episodes.' ' 

"Yes — if  you  like  to  put  it  that  way.  The 
things  that  really  matter — work,  success — love, 
in  the  real  meaning  of  the  word — only  count  in 
their  cumulative  aspect." 

Mabel  paused  before  replying.  "You  put 
love  last — is  that  because  you  think  it  the  great- 
est of  these?" 

Mack  worth  was  staring  across  the  water. 
"Certainly,"  he  said. 

"By  'the  real  meaning  of  the  word,'  you  mean 
self-sacrifice,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes — undoubtedly,"  he  replied,  after  a 
pause. 

"Well" — his  companion  laid  her  parasol 
against  the  arm  of  the  chair — "I  think  that  is 
the  difference  between  a  man's  point  of  view 
and  a  woman's.  Somehow,  a  woman  knows  that 
the  sacrifice  and  consequently  the  supreme  sen- 
sation, comes  to  her  in  what  is,  after  all,  a  mo- 
ment. The  future  can  never  mean  anything  to 
her  symbolically,  so  far  as  emotion  is  concerned. 
That  is  why  when  she  is  profoundly  stirred,  she 

demands  so  much  from  the  moment;  and " 

Mabel  bent  to  pick  up  her  gloves  from  the  path, 
"why  she  makes  such  mistakes." 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  229 

"But,  surely  if  she  knows  that- 
worth  stooped  to  help  her,  "can't  sh( 

"Learn  to  see  things  like  a  man?  Never, 
the  contrary,  she  realises,  in  nine  cases  out  of 
ten,  that  the  dreams  she  had  as  a  girl — before 
she  understood  either  herself  or  life — dreams 
full  of  much  you  described  just  now,  that  they 
are  but  a  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit.  That 
one  moment  of  real  emotion,"  Mabel's  voice 
sank,  "would  have  been  worth  them  all  a  thou- 
sand times  over!" 

Mackworth  glanced  at  her  quickly. 

"Even  if  it  had  meant  a  mistake?" 

"Yes." 

"And  then ?" 

"Ah,  then "  Mabel  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders and  rose  slowly.  "Then  she  may  suffer — 
if  the  moment  comes !" 

"But  that  can't  be  the  end."  Her  compan- 
ion rose  and  stood  by  her.  "Say  what  you  like, 
there's  always  something  ahead!  Granted  a 
woman  of  a  certain  temperament — perhaps  the 
finest,  the  essentially  feminine,  if  you  like — has 
suffered,  either  by  finding  that  the  visions  of  her 
girlhood  wouldn't  bear  the  strain  of  life,  or,"  he 
paused,  "by  having  made  a  mistake.  Even  so, 
the  future,  when  that  phase  is  over,  is  bound, 
if  she  lives  on  at  all,  to  matter  to  her,  just  as  it 


230  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

does  to  others.  Don't  you  think "  Mack- 
worth  stooped  to  examine  a  weed  on  the  coping 
beside  him,  "if,  perhaps,  she  knew  there  was 
someone  who  understood,  who  could  make  her 
secure — for  that's  what  it  all  turns  on — she 
could,  in  time,  face  life  again?  I  don't  mean  at 
any  particular  moment,"  he  added  quickly.  "I 
recognise  that  the  pressure  of  the  past,  or — well, 
of  the  present,  may  be  too  much  for  that.  She 
could  be  the  only  judge  of  when  it  was  possible. 
But — well — some  time?" 

"It  might  be  too  late." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"But—  '  Mabel's  laugh  was  a  little  forced. 
"The  world  isn't  like  that!  One  can't  expect 

to  find — to  go  on  finding  someone "  she 

stopped. 

General  Mackworth  stood  up  and  looked  at 
her.  "Oh  yes,  you  can,  you  know!" 

Mabel,  meeting  his  eyes,  glanced  away  and 
turned  slowly  towards  the  steps. 

They  moved  along  the  path  in  silence ;  at  the 
foot  of  the  flight  leading  to  the  upper  terrace, 
she  faced  round.  "Please  don't  think  I  don't 
understand!"  she  said  quietly,  "that  I'm 
not  grateful — not  immensely  touched.  I  am." 
She  paused,  her  eyes  turned  towards  the 
sunset. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  231 

Her  companion  stood  very  straight  and  still 
beside  her. 

"But,  well — oh,  don't  you  see,"  she  said,  with 
a  sudden  catch  in  her  voice,  "how  easy  it  is  to 
understand  all  that  ?  It  is  so  straight — so  loyal ; 
so  everything  that  the  best  kind  of  men  have  al- 
ways been  like !  But — when  it  comes  to  oneself 

"  she  threw  out  her  hand,  "what  is  one  to 

say  ?  We  mean  such  different  things  by  fulfill- 
ment, somehow.  .  .  .  To  you  it  represents 
a  definite  progress — to  'travel  faithfully'  as 
Stevenson  calls  it.  Success,  love — anything — 
however  much  they  may  be  desired  at  moments, 
are  only  incidents  by  the  way,  battles  won,  and 

"  she  smiled  and  held  up  her  hand  as  the 

other  was  about  to  interrupt,  "perhaps  the  fair 
lady  rescued!  And  she  would  be  rescued,"  she 
added  quickly.  "I  haven't  a  shadow  of  a  doubt 
about  that !  You'd  hew  her  foes  limb  from  limb 
— make  her,  as  you  say  yourself,  secure;  and 
she'd  travel  like  the  princess  in  the  fairy  story  and 
fall  more  and  more  in  love  with  her  knight  every 
day.  I  defy  you "  Mabel  looked  up  laugh- 
ingly, "to  deny  the  truth  of  that  allegory!  But 

"  she  reached  out  and  smoothed  the  glossy 

surface  of  a  magnolia  leaf  beside  her,  "when  we 

come  to  the  woman — to  one  like  myself " 

she  stopped. 


232  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"I  was  hoping  that  perhaps  we  had!"  ob- 
served Mack  worth. 

Mabel  shook  her  head.  "That's  just  the  trou- 
ble," she  said  gravely.  "Women  like  me  don't 
seem  to  fit  into  other  people's  fairy-tales  very 
well.  I  don't  mean  that  you  won't  find  some 
who  will.  People  like  Cousin  Grace " 

"Thank  you.  May  we  stick  to  one  story  at 
a  time?  The  tale  of  'The  Good  Aunt  and  the 
Wicked  Nephew'  provides  other  fields  of  in- 
terest." 

Mabel  smiled.  "I  meant  the  survivals  of  her 
type  nowadays.  In  some  mysterious  way  they 
do  seem  able  to  keep  alive  the  traditional  atti- 
tude of  men  and  women  to  each  other — but  they 
are  in  a  minority  to-day.  We  others  under- 
stand them  almost  as  little  as  men  understand 

us — or — for  the  matter  of  that "  she 

dropped  the  leaf  and  turned  away,  "as  we  un- 
derstand ourselves." 

"Isn't  that— er— a  little  difficult?"  asked 
Mackworth  after  a  pause. 

"Difficult?"  Mabel  halted  on  the  step  and 
glanced  at  him  over  her  shoulder.  "Oh,  yes,  but 
it's  true — unfortunately!  A  girl  nowadays  is 
apt  to  start  out  with  ideals  very  like  a  man's. 
She,  too,  wants  to  'travel  faithfully' — to  fulfil 
her  own  destiny.  But — somehow,  there  seems 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  233 

to  be  no  continuous  path  for  her ;  it  goes  a  little 
way  and  then  stops ;  it  isn't  built  on  the  founda- 
tions of  life,  as  a  whole,  I  suppose.  Marriage, 
at  its  best,  shows  her  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth,  with  other  visions  and  other  roads.  More 
often,  I'm  afraid,  it  removes  landmarks  and  ob- 
scures familiar  stars,  leaving  her  to  stumble  and 
hurt  herself  and,  what  is  much  more  tragic — 
others,  among  pitfalls  she  never  even  guessed 
at." 

"But  sooner  or  later,  she  finds  her  feet — one 
sees  that!" 

"Perhaps,"  Mabel  looked  down  sadly.  "But 
it  may  be  too  late  then,  you  see." 

They  ascended  the  steps  in  silence ;  at  the  top 
she  paused  for  the  other  to  overtake  her.  "That 
is  the  real  tragedy  of  a  girl's  life,"  she  continued 
quietly,  "to  have  failed  at  the  meeting  of  the 
ways — when  perhaps,  in  her  heart,  she  had  flat- 
tered herself  she  could  guide.  Do  you  wonder 
if,  as  a  woman — having  suffered  disillusionment 
— she  mistrusts  emotions  that  expend  themselves 
in  dreams?"  She  smiled  a  little  bitterly. 

"But  she  must  have  something "  The 

other  glanced  at  her. 

Mabel  looked  away.  After  a  moment  she  re- 
plied: 

"She  has  this."    With  a  motion  of  her  hand 


234  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

she  indicated  the  quiet  shores  and  the  sunset. 
"I  told  you  when  you  asked  me,  that  sadness 
passes  at  last.  That  this  beautiful  world  with 
its  sunshine  and  peace,  its  flowers  and  sky,  does 
make  living  possible — life  worth  while  again. 
Perhaps  it  might  not  give  so  much  to  all  women, 
but  to  me  it  has  been  very  good — very  wonder- 
ful!" She  halted  and  her  eyes  wandered  to  the 
shadowed  mountains  opposite — a  flush  on  her 
cheek.  "You  don't  know  what  it  means  to  me 

— "  she  continued,  softly,  "Italy — this  'pleas- 
ant country,'  as  Shakespeare  calls  it.  For  years 
I  longed  to  come  back.  And  now,  to  have  awak- 
ened, as  it  were,  from  the  grey  passivity  of  the 
past,  to  a  world  where  romance  and  beauty  call 
again  from  every  cypress  by  the  road,  from 
every  little  town  among  the  hills — that  is  a  real 
Risorgimentot"  She  stopped  with  a  catch  of 

her  breath.  "And  I  do  want  to  feel  it  all " 

she  added,  half  to  herself,  "to  miss  none  of  it. 
I — I've  missed  so  much,  somehow!" 

For  some  moments  she  stood  as  though  ob- 
livious of  her  companion;  then  she  turned  with 
a  quick  smile.  "Forgive  me.  You  see  I'm  very 
happy,  really!  Don't  worry  about  me;  I  shall 

be  all  right.  And "  she  laughed  a  little, 

"perhaps  my  choice  of  word  was  rather  ambi- 
tious. It  suggests  an  awakening  of  a  more 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  235 

strenuous  kind  that  I  propose  to  allow  myself  1 
I  just  want  not  to  think  too  much — not  to  strug- 
gle, for  a  time,"  she  continued,  as  they  paced 
along  the  terrace.  "Just  to  see  and  feel  and  en- 
joy; to  learn  about  art  and  people.  To  begin 
afresh  on  a  gayer,  more  human  plane.  Surely 
you  understand?"  She  glanced  impulsively  at 
the  other.  "I  want  it  to  be  Renaissance  really, 
not  Risorgimento!" 

Her  companion  smiled  faintly,  but  made  no 
response. 

"You  see  I  am  hopeless!"  Mabel  laughed. 
"I  ought  to  have  awakened  in  the  past,  as  one 
of  Lorenzo's  ladies,  with  no  duties  in  life  save 
to  please  and  to  try  to  grace  the  most  beautiful 
moment  of  the  ages;  and  no  emotions  beyond 
the  day." 

Mackworth  smiled  a  little  sadly.  "Perhaps 
you  are  right,"  he  said,  "for  a  time,  at  least. 
Only- 

"Yes?"  Mabel's  glance  softened  as  she 
turned  to  him. 

"Well — look  out  for  what  you  call  Romance! 
Your  Italian  friends  of  the  Renaissance  only 
played  at  it,  you  know.  With  us  Northerners 
it's  in  the  blood,  and  may  lead  us  into  strange 
places." 

"But  why  not?"    Mabel  laughed.    "It's  our 


236  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

one  redeeming  vice!    Without  it — without  the 
spirit  of  adventure,  we  English  would  never 


She  broke  off  as  Lady  Grace  Whipham 
emerged  suddenly  from  an  adjacent  path  and 
stared  in  their  direction. 

—have  built  up  the  British  Empire?"  in- 
terpolated her  companion,  raising  his  voice. 
"There's  something  in  that.  Ah,  here  you  are, 
Aunt !  You  seem  to  be  in  a  hurry." 

Lady  Grace  bore  down  on  them.  "What  is 
the  time,  Hugh?"  she  said,  disregarding  her 
nephew's  greeting. 

General  Mackworth  stopped,  and,  feeling  in 
a  waistcoat  pocket,  extracted  a  rusty  gunmetal 
watch.  "If  it's  anything  important,"  he  re- 
marked, scrutinising  the  dial,  "perhaps  you'd 
better  apply  to  some  one  else,  Aunt  Grace. 
What  between  English  time  and  Central  Euro- 
pean time  and  its  own  time,  this  particular  in- 
strument  "  he  paused  and  shook  it  tenta- 
tively. 

"What  does  it  say?" 

"Twenty-five  past  six;  but  it  may  be  an  hour 
or  so  earlier — or  later."  The  general  pocketed 
his  property  apologetically. 

"It's  later!"  said  Lady  Grace  quickly.  "Ma- 
bel, dear,  I  met  Mr.  Leslie  wandering  about  the 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  237 

hotel  just  now.  He  said  you'd  arranged  to  go 
with  him  to  those  cypresses  on  the  hill.  I  told 
him  you'd  been  out  ever  since  tea,  and  I  was 
sure  you'd  be  too  tired — that  you'd  have  to  rest 
before  dinner." 

Mabel  drew  herself  up  slightly.  "Will  you 
give  me  my  gloves,  General  Mackworth? 
Thank  you.  I'm  sorry  you  said  that,  Cousin 
Grace,"  she  continued,  turning  to  the  elder  lady. 
"I  particularly  want  a  walk  before  dinner — 
we've  been  sitting  about  all  the  afternoon.  I 
had  thought  of  putting  Mr.  Leslie  off  and  ask- 
ing you  to  come  for  a  turn  by  the  lake  instead, 
but  I  can't  very  well  do  that  now.  I  must  go  at 
once!"  Without  affording  the  other  time  for  a 
rejoinder,  she  moved  towards  the  path  leading 
to  the  hotel  terrace.  "Where  did  you  see  him?" 
she  enquired. 

"He's  somewhere  about  the  upper  hall — at 
least  he  was." 

"Thank  you."  With  a  little  nod,  Mabel  dis- 
appeared among  the  bushes ;  a  moment  later  she 
ran  up  the  broad  steps  of  the  terrace  and  van- 
ished through  the  hotel  door. 

General  Mackworth  broke  the  silence. 
"Rather  a  poor  effort  of  yours,  that,  Aunt!"  he 
remarked,  taking  the  Corriere  delta  Sera  from 
his  pocket  and  moving  towards  the  path. 


238  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"What  d'you  mean?"  demanded  Lady  Grace 
tartly. 

Her  nephew  halted  for  a  moment  and  gazed 
across  the  lake;  then,  slapping  his  leg  thought- 
fully with  the  paper,  he  turned  away  without 
replying. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Hugh?"  exclaimed 
the  other  querulously.  "You're  very  trying  1 
You  don't  suppose  I  make  those  'efforts/  as  you 
call  them,  for  my  own  amusement,  do  you?  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  why  I  take  the  trouble — for 
all  the  thanks  I  get!" 

"Sorry,  Aunt.  Why  do  you?"  The  general 
glanced  at  his  relative  with  some  disfavour. 

"Because  I  can't  help  it!"  rejoined  the  other 
spiritedly,  "when  I  see  you  making  a  mess  of 
things — both  of  you — the  way  you're  doing! 
These  walks  and  art  lessons  and  Italian  lessons 
and  nonsense  of  that  kind,  with  that  young  Les- 
lie— I've  no  patience  with  Mabel!  And  you're 
just  as  bad !  When  you  do  have  a  chance  of  get- 
ting her  alone — for  the  first  time,  so  far  as  I 
know,  this  week,  you " 

"I  am  interrupted  at  the  most  interesting 
point  by  my  aunt " 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  old  lady  sharply.  "If 
you  call  that really,  Hugh — you  don't  sup- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  239 

pose  I  couldn't  hear?    You  were  talking  poli- 
tics!" 

General  Mackworth  backed  up  the  path.  "I 
meant  most  interesting  for  the  public,  Aunt 
Grace !  The  rest  of  the  conversation  was,  as  the 
novelists  say  in  the  last  chapter,  'of  importance 
only  to  the  young  people  themselves.'  Forgive 
my  running  off,  will  you?"  He  waved  the  Cor- 
riere  and  lifted  his  cap.  "I've  got  some  letters 
to  write." 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE  Ave  Maria  was  rising  in  a  distant 
clamour  from  the  bells  of  the  village  church,  as 
Mabel  and  her  companion  emerged  on  to  the 
tiny  plateau — no  bigger  than  the  floor  of  a  room 
—about  which,  in  a  circle,  stood  the  cypresses 
that  marked  the  spot  for  miles  around.  The  last 
yards  of  the  ascent  had  been  a  scramble  in  the 
semi-obscurity  of  the  bushes  thronging  the  back 
of  the  knoll,  and  the  sensation  of  stepping  on  to 
the  level  patch  of  sward  perched  high  upon  the 
face  of  the  slope,  was  like  that  of  issuing  from 
a  dim  stairway  on  to  the  topmost  platform  of 
a  tower. 

The  sun  had  set;  the  afterglow  welling  up 
the  western  sky  had  crept  over  the  mountains 
and  filled  the  air  around  with  a  suffused,  rose- 
coloured  glory,  that,  dazzling  the  eyes,  cast  im- 
palpable shadows  about  the  feet.  An  intense 
stillness  reigned ;  the  surface  of  the  lake  far  be- 
low seemed  to  have  receded  into  the  darkness 
under  the  opposite  shores,  exposing  vast  declivi- 

240 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  241 

ties  of  snadow  falling  dizzily  into  a  void  of 
crimson. 

Mabel  paused,  her  eyes  momentarily  confused 
by  the  radiance  of  the  sky  and  the  effects  of 
height  and  depth  around  her. 

"Take  care!"  she  exclaimed,  as  her  compan- 
ion crossed  the  grass  and  leaned  over  the  edge. 

Leslie  turned  his  head  and  smiled.  "It's  all 
right,  thanks.  It  isn't  nearly  as  steep  as  it  looks 
from  over  there.  Come  and  look !" 

"I  think  I'd  rather  not."  Mabel  sank  down 
on  a  little  mound  of  turf  near  the  back  of  the 
knoll. 

"I  say,  you're  not  too  tired,  are  you?"  asked 
her  companion. 

"Not  a  bit ;  only  out  of  breath.  That  last  part 
was  rather  steep." 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  help  you?"  Leslie 
glanced  at  her  reproachfully. 

"Short  of  carrying  me '  Mabel  smiled, 

"I  don't  know  what  more  you  could  have  done." 

"Why  not?  I  will,  if  we've  any  more  climb- 
ing to  do!" 

"Perhaps  I'm  heavier  than  you  think." 

Leslie  laughed.  "Never  mind.  I  can  carry 
anything!" 

Mabel  looked  at  him  through  half -closed  eyes. 
"Yes,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "I  forgot!" 


242  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Her  companion  turned  his  back  abruptly  and 
retreated  to  the  edge. 

Mabel  smiled  a  little  maliciously.  "I  suppose 
we  may  regard  that  remark  as  putting  an  end 
to  the  conversation,"  she  observed. 

The  other  picked  up  a  stone  from  the  grass 
and  jerked  it  far  over  the  tree-tops  below;  then, 
leaning  against  the  smooth  trunk  of  a  cypress, 
he  stared  down  at  the  lake. 

Mabel  watched  him — the  smile  still  on  her 
lips.  Her  companion  looked,  in  his  white  flan- 
nels, more  than  usually  youthful  just  then;  he 
was  bareheaded  and  his  hair,  which  had  sprouted 
recently  from  its  normal  cropped  condition, 
clustered  round  his  forehead  in,  at  the  moment, 
rather  moist  and  distinctly  juvenile  curls.  The 
South  African  tan  had  reddened  and  deepened 
during  cloudless  hours  of  fishing  in  the  past 
fortnight,  and  his  shirt-sleeves,  rolled  up  above 
the  wrists,  displayed  a  pair  of  forearms  that 
brought  memories  to  Mabel  of  country  cricket 
grounds  in  a  hot  summer.  He  had  taken  off  his 
jacket,  and,  as  he  stood  by  the  column  of  the 
tree  among  the  irises  and  clumps  of  flower- 
ing grasses  fringing  the  brink,  his  tall  figure 
showed  with  some  of  the  grace  of  a  sylvan 
statue  against  the  dark  background  of  the 
mountains. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  243 

"Please  come  and  sit  down  I"  Mabel  pointed 
to  the  grass  beside  her.  "We'll  have  to  go  back 
in  a  very  few  minutes." 

The  clangour  of  the  bells  ceased  abruptly  in 
the  campanile  below;  a  few  regular  beats  fol- 
lowed, decreasing  in  volume  and  dying  away  in 
a  deep  melodious  vibration. 

Leslie  moved  across  the  sward  and  dropped 
down  by  her  feet. 

"Listen!"    Mabel  held  up  a  hand. 

Across  the  water  and  from  the  slopes  around, 
like  notes  struck  gently  from  the  sides  of  a  vast 
crystal  bowl,  came  the  chiming  of  a  dozen  vil- 
lage belfries.  Blending  in  mellow  bursts  of 
sound,  clear  and  resonant  from  valleys  hidden 
amid  the  neighbouring  chestnut  groves,  infi- 
nitely sweetened  and  remote  from  mountain 
townlets  and  little  ports  by  the  shore,  the  call  of 
the  Angelus  floated  over  lake  and  hill,  filling  the 
evening  air  with  a  soft  musical  confusion. 

For  some  moments  Mabel  and  her  companion 
listened.  Gradually  the  volume  of  sound  dimin- 
ished; one  by  one  the  campaniles  ceased  their 
orison,  and  an  immense  quiet  as  of  benediction 
descended  on  the  world  around.  Then,  from 
behind  an  adjacent  ridge,  a  single  bell  tolled. 
After  the  melody  of  the  chimes,  its  regular 
stroke,  now  deep  and  clear,  now  muffled  and 


244  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

faint  as  it  travelled  through  the  heavy  atmos- 
phere, fell  solemnly  on  the  ear. 

Leslie  sat  up  with  a  jerk.  "By  Jove!"  he 
said. 

Mabel  glanced  at  him.  "What  is  it?"  She 
followed  his  eyes  towards  the  ridge. 

Her  companion,  leaning  on  his  elbow,  listened 
intently;  then,  as  the  tolling  ceased  with  a  final 
plaintive  beat,  he  dropped  back  on  the  turf  be- 
side her. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!  I  was  listening  to  that 
bell.  It — it  reminded  me  of  something.  That's 
all." 

"It  sounded  a  little  sad."  Mabel  leaned  back 
and  closed  her  eyes.  "What  did  it  make  you 
think  of?" 

"Oh,  something  I  heard  out  at  the  Cape 
once." 

"A  bell?" 

"Yes.  Not  a  church  one — something  quite 
different.  On  the  veld.  It  isn't  the  sort  of 
thing  you'd  care  about,"  he  added. 

Mabel  laughed.  "How  do  you  know?  Tell 
me!" 

"It  isn't,  really!  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was 
something  rather  beastly.  Let's  go  on  about 


"No,  please!   D 'you  mind?    I  really  am  a  lit- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  245 

tie  tired.  I'd  been  talking  ever  since  tea  about 
all  sorts  of  serious  things,  and  then  you  made 
me  combine  the  climb  up  here  with  a  most  ex- 
haustive and  exhausting  lecture  on  early  Lom- 
bard art.  It's  your  turn  now.  Go  on !  I  want 
a  story." 

Leslie  plucked  a  stem  of  grass  and  chewed  it. 
"I'd  rather  not,  you  know.  I  hate " 

"You  hate  talking  about  South  Africa.  I 
know.  But  this  evening — please !  Think  of  all 
the  Italian  lessons  and  art  lessons  you've  got  out 
of  me  in  the  last  fortnight !" 

Leslie  glanced  at  her.  "All  right,"  he  said, 
unwillingly.  "It  isn't  much,  really.  It's  only 
something  that  happened  in  British  KafFraria — 
before  I  went  up  to  the  Protectorate.  I  went 
out  to  enlist  in  the  C.M.R. — Cape  Mounted 
Rifles,  you  know.  But  when  I  got  to  King  Wil- 
liam's Town " 

•Mabel  interrupted.  "Did  you  go  out  there 
just  to  enlist?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?  Just  because  you  wanted  adventure? 
You  tell  me  so  little  about  yourself,  you  know!" 

"Well "  Leslie  hesitated.  "Yes,  in  a  way. 

Not  exactly.  I  thought  I'd  like  the  life — I 
wanted  a  chance  to "  he  paused. 

"To  what?" 


246  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — to  see  what  it  was  like. 
I'd  never  had  that  sort  of  thing — riding,  shoot- 
ing, that  kind  of  life  before.  I  wanted — well 
—to  find  out  whether  I  was  any  good,  you 
know!" 

Mabel  smiled.    "I  see.    Go  on." 

"At  King  William's  Town  I  met  a  fellow 
who'd  been  up  in  the  Protectorate  and  he  ad- 
vised me  to  chuck  the  idea  of  the  C.M.R.,  and  to 
try  for  the  P.F.M.P.  instead.  He  said  I'd  find 
more  Englishmen  of  my  own  class  in  the  ranks 
up  there,  and  that  it  was  a  great  score  to  serve 
in  a  Crown  Colony  instead  of  at  the  Cape.  Be- 
sides, the  Amatonga  were  getting  up  steam  by 
that  time,  and  he  said  there  was  certain  to  be  a 
row  before  long." 

"So  you  thought  that  would  give  you  a  better 
chance  of  discovering  your  various  failings?" 
put  in  Mabel. 

Leslie  glanced  at  her.     "Er — yes.     At  least 

"  meeting  the  amused  look  in  her  eyes,  he 

reddened.    "Well,  anyway,  I  decided  to  have  a 

shot  at  it,  and  after  a  bit  I  went  up  to  Kimber- 

ley  and  then  on  to  Derby,  you  know." 

Mabel  nodded. 

"But  this  bell  business  happened  near  King 
William's  Town — before  I  went  north.  I 
stopped  on  there  till  I  got  an  answer  to  a  letter 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  247 

to  a  friend  of  Hill's  at  Fort  Derby — Hill  was 
the  fellow  I  told  you  of — and  while  I  was  wait- 
ing, I  got  a  temporary  job  in  the  Public  Works 
Department  at  King.  The  P.W.D.  out  there 
are  always  taking  on  chaps  as  timekeepers  and 
that  sort  of  thing. 

"Part  of  my  job  was  to  pay  the  natives  on 
some  road  works  about  ten  miles  out,  and  one 
evening,  just  about  this  time,  I  was  riding  back 
by  myself  to  King,  over  the  veld." 

Leslie  paused  and  chewed  another  stem  of 
grass. 

"It's  rather  a  queer  feeling  being  alone  on  the 
veld  at  sundown,  if  you're  not  used  to  it.  You 
can  see  for  miles  and  miles;  it's  like  being 
planked  down  in  the  centre  of  a  huge  browny- 
green  map  with  everything  small  and  clear  and 
a  tremendous  distance  off,  and  little  flat-shaped 
mountains  and  clouds  round  the  edges  instead 
of  a  horizon,  but  seeming  farther  away,  some- 
how. The  mimosa  bushes  look  like  dwarfed  big 
trees — as  if  you  were  seeing  them  and  every- 
thing through  the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope,  you 
know,  only  all  gloomy-coloured  instead  of 
bright,  and  getting  darker  each  minute — not 
slowly  like  here,  but  as  though  some  one  were 
turning  down  the  light  while  you  watched. 
It  gets  frightfully  lonely-looking.  .  .  . 


248  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

There's  not  a  soul  about,  of  course,  and  the 
Kaffir  kraals — when  there  are  any — sink  out  of 
sight  as  the  light  gets  bad.  Besides,  though  you 
can  see  such  distances,  the  veld  isn't  level,  really ; 
it  rolls  up  and  down  and  hides  things  near  you. 

"One  can  find  one's  way  easily  enough  in  that 
part  of  the  colony  if  you  stick  to  the  waggon 
tracks  and  watch  out.  It's  pretty  slow  going 
through,  and  you  ride  on  and  on  with  what  look 
like  the  same  bushes  and  stones  rising  up  and 
down  against  the  skyline  all  the  time.  It's  aw- 
fully difficult  not  to  begin  thinking  you've 
missed  your  path.  The  light  bothers  one  a  lot. 
The  sky  keeps  pale  and  dazzling  for  a  long 
while  after  sunset,  and  the  ground  gets  darker 
and  darker  till  you  can't  see  a  yard  before  you 
and  your  horse  begins  stumbling.  I  wasn't 
much  of  a  rider,  then,  you  know — I'd  just 
started  picking  it  up  at  King — and  I  daresay  I 
used  to  jab  his  mouth  a  lot,  thinking  I  saw 
things  that  weren't  there.  Anyhow  he  used  to 
get  jolly  nervous."  Leslie  paused. 

"There  are  any  amount  of  noises  about. 
They've  got  birds  out  there  that  start  when  it 
gets  dark — one  called  the  'kiewiet'  with  a  long 
mournful  sort  of  cry.  Then  the  wind  comes  up 
directly  the  light  goes.  The  veld  is  awfully  dry 
and  you  hear  it  rustling  for  miles.  Little  puffs 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  249 

come  as  hot  as  an  oven  and  then  frightfully 
cold  and  dusty.  It  doesn't  last  long  but  it  chills 
you  right  through.  .  .  . 

"I  wasn't  sure  of  my  way,  that  evening.  The 
wind  was  blowing  sand  in  my  face  and  my  horse 
chucked  his  head  about  and  kept  listening  all 
round.  I  wanted  to  ride  west  but  the  light  had 
pretty  well  gone,  and  after  dark  in  the  open, 
out  there,  there's  a  sort  of  whiteness — some  kind 
of  optical  illusion,  I  suppose — that  keeps  danc- 
ing along  the  horizon  wherever  you  look,  and 
confuses  you  awfully  if  you  start  noticing  it. 

"Just  as  I  was  beginning  to  get  that  jumpy 
feeling,  you  know,  wondering  if  I  were  going 
right,  I  heard  a  bell.  I  pulled  up  and  listened. 
I  was  crossing  a  kopje  and  the  sound  came 
along  the  wind,  like  that  one  just  now,  a  long 
way  off,  but  clear  and  loud.  I  thought  it  must 
be  some  Kaffir  church  and  was  thinking  of  turn- 
ing off  that  way,  when  it  stopped  dead!  It 
wasn't  the  wind  shifting.  It  gave  out  in  the 
middle  of  a  toll  as  if  some  one  had  jumped  on 
it.  Then  suddenly  it  began  again,  banging 
away  clearer  than  ever.  As  I  listened  it  died 
out.  It  didn't  stop  like  last  time  but  got  muf- 
fled, just  as  though  it  had  been  carried  into  a 
room;  you  could  just  hear  it  beating  very  softly. 

"I  began  to  wonder  what  the  deuce  it  could 


250  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

be !  I  say  I  thought  it  was  a  Kaffir  church,  but 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  after  the  first  go  off,  I  knew 
jolly  well  it  wasn't.  It  didn't  sound  like  a 
church  bell.  My  horse  started  of  his  own  accord 
down  the  other  side  of  the  kopje.  There  was  a 
hot,  shut-in  feeling  down  there  compared  to  up 
above,  and  I  was  awfully  surprised  to  hear  the 
bell  beginning  to  beat,  beat,  beat — like  the  noise 
you'd  expect  if  it  were  ringing  under  water.  I 
knew  in  a  second,  then,  what  it  had  been  remind- 
ing me  of!  It  was  just  like  a  buoy  at  sea.  The 
same  slow  ding-dong,  and  then  stopping  with 
a  sort  of  jerk,  and  going  on  again.  It  had  the 
lonely  sound  too,  like  bell-buoys  have  out  at  sea, 
you  know.  .  .  . 

"There  was  a  little  donga  at  the  foot  of  the 
gully  and  my  horse  stumbled  and  then  tore  up 
the  other  side,  almost  chucking  me  off.  He 
slowed  up  at  the  top,  and  I  heard  the  bell  again. 
It  startled  me  awfully  this  time !  The  wind  had 
dropped  and  I  could  hear  it  clanging  away,  to 
and  fro,  exactly  as  if  it  were  being  knocked 
about  by  waves — and  coming  nearer.  I  man- 
aged to  pull  up.  It  was  a  beastly  feeling  sitting 
and  listening  to  it  coming  on — wondering  what 
on  earth  it  could  be.  Of  course  the  sound  rose 
and  fell,  and  sometimes  it  seemed  to  stop  alto- 
gether. But  the  next  moment  it  would  bang 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  251 

out  with  a  tremendous  clatter,  and  you  could 
hear  it  coming  on — very  slowly,  but  moving  all 
the  time. 

"My  horse  got  restive  and  began  backing  and 
kicking.  It  was  almost  pitch  dark,  except  for 
the  stars,  and  I  was  awfully  afraid  of  losing  the 
track  if  we  once  got  off  it,  so  I  let  him  go 
on.  We  went  over  a  couple  of  rises — the  bell 
getting  nearer  all  the  time.  My  heart  was 
thumping  so  loudly  I  could  hardly  hear !  Then 
suddenly,  at  the  foot  of  the  next  gully,  the  toll- 
ing sounded  out  with  a  tremendous  clanging 
right  above  me  and  I  saw  a  huge,  black  shape 
lurch  up  against  the  skyline  and  bear  down  on 
me.  For  a  moment  I  couldn't  make  out  what 
the  deuce  it  was!  Then  I  realised  it  was  a  big 
trek-waggon  drawn  by  a  span  of  oxen.  It 
seemed  to  be  heaped  up  with  something,  and,  as 
it  bumped  over  the  brow,  I  got  a  glimpse  of 
a  high  triangle  on  the  top  with  a  bell  swing- 
ing, and  a  couple  of  fellows  on  horseback 
riding  on  each  side  with  rifles  slung  behind 
them. 

"I  gave  a  sort  of  shout,  but  there  was  such 
a  bang  and  clatter,  as  the  waggon  bumped  down 
the  kopje,  that  no  one  heard.  Then  my  horse 
neighed,  and  somebody  called  out  in  Dutch: 
'Who  goes  there?'  I  answered  something,  and 


252  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

a  fellow  rode  forward  and  shouted  to  me  to  get 
out  of  the  way."  Leslie  paused. 

"Who  were  they?"  asked  Mabel  breathlessly. 

"Lepers,  going  down  under  guard  to  Rob- 
ben  Island.  I  heard  afterwards  they  take  them 
like  that."  Leslie  threw  away  his  wisp  of  grass 
and  clasped  his  hands  round  his  knees.  "I  told 
you  it  was  rather  a  beastly  story." 

There  was  a  pause.  "How  awful!"  said  Ma- 
bel. "Poor  creatures !  Where  did  you  say  they 
were  going?" 

"First  to  the  Cape  by  waggon.  Then  over 
to  Robben  Island,  off  Cape  Town.  It's  a  leper 
settlement.  At  least  it's  rather  more  than  that. 
The  population  consists  of  convicts,  lunatics  and 
lepers ;  and  the  fellows  who  look  after  them,  of 
course." 

"How  dreadful!" 

"Yes.  It  must  be  a  cheery  place!"  Leslie 
leaned  back  on  his  elbow  and  gazed  around 
him. 

The  glory  had  faded  from  the  sky.  Soft  and 
luminous  with  the  blue  of  the  South,  night 
gathered  in  the  great  valleys  across  the  lake, 
spreading  its  shadows  over  the  mountain  slopes 
and  flowing  in  wreaths  of  cobalt  mist  on  to  the 
face  of  the  still  water.  A  faint  chill  crept  into 
the  air;  the  irises  by  the  edge  of  the  plateau 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  253 

shivered  momentarily  on  their  tall  stalks ;  a  sigh 
rose  from  the  olive  groves  below. 

Mabel  broke  the  silence.  "What  a  dreadful 
story !  I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  head." 

"I  shouldn't  have  told  you !"  Leslie  glanced 
at  her  penitently. 

Mabel  made  no  response.  For  some  moments 
she  lay  motionless;  then  she  turned  on  her  side 
and  looked  at  her  companion.  "Do  you  realise 
that  you're  a  very  difficult  person  to  under- 
stand?" she  said. 

"How  d'you  mean?" 

"Just  what  I  say.  Hasn't  any  one  else  ever 
told  you  so?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so." 

"Really?   DoteUme.    I  want  to  know!" 

Leslie  gave  her  a  puzzled  glance.  "No — 
really!" 

Mabel  played  with  the  tall  grasses  by  her  side. 
She  looked  up  again.  "Have  you  ever  described 
that  ride  to  other  people?" 

"I  don't  know — yes;  I  expect  I  did  at  the 
time — to  the  fellows  at  King." 

"I  don't  mean  that.  As  you  did  just  now — 
to  any  one  who  had  never  seen  the  veld?" 

Her  companion  reflected.    "I  don't  think  so." 

"Not  since  the  war — since  you  rescued  Ger- 
ald?" 


254  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"O,  Lord,  no!"    Leslie  turned  away. 

Mabel  followed  his  movement  with  her  eyes, 
then,  leaning  back,  she  continued  absently  twist- 
ing and  pleating  the  stems  beside  her.  "Don't 
think  me  horrid,"  she  said  after  a  pause,  "but — 
do  you  know  you  are  a  little  apt  to  hurt  people's 
feelings  sometimes?" 

Leslie  glanced  quickly  at  her  over  his  shoul- 
der. "I'm  sorry — how?" 

"Well — by  being  as  you  are  just  now ;  by  your 
manner  when  any  one  refers  to  what  you  did  in 
Africa.  I  do  understand  your  getting  tired  of 
people,  you  scarcely  know,  asking  about  it  all 
and  making  a  fuss  over  you.  But  I  don't  think 
it's  quite  fair  to  go  on  being  like  that  to — well, 

to  your  friends.  Especially "  she  paused, 

and  her  voice  sank  slightly.  "When  they've  told 
you  that  they  understand!" 

"But  they  don't!"  Leslie  sat  up  with  a  jerk. 
"They  don't  understand — that's  just  it!" 

Mabel  gazed  at  him  for  a  moment  in  silence. 
"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  quietly,  "do  you  think — 
perhaps — that  that  is  quite  fair?" 

Her  companion  stared  at  her.  "I  don't 
know,"  he  muttered.  "It's  true,  you  know!" 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  continued  Mabel,  a 
faint  flush  rising  to  her  cheeks,  "I  didn't  intend 
to  mention  that !  I  haven't,  since  the  first  after- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  255 

noon  when  you  said  you'd  rather  not  talk  about 
it,  although  sometimes — well,  just  because  we've 
become  friends  and  have  found  so  many  inter- 
ests in  common,  I  should  have  liked  to  know  a 
little  of  that  side  of  your  life — which,  after  all, 

must  be  the  one  that  counts.  But "  she 

looked  away,  "I  won't  ever  again,  if  you'd  rather 
not.  ..." 

After  a  pause  she  continued  quietly.  "I  was 
thinking  of  something  quite  different,  just  now 
— of  your  story — of  the  way  you  told  it.  When 
I  said  you  were  rather  puzzling  I  only  meant 
something  I  noticed  when  we  first  met.  I  was 
surprised  then,  you  know,  by  your  caring  so 
much  about  Italy — not  just  the  scenery,  but  the 
3pirit  of  it  all.  .  .  .  You  remember?" 

Leslie  nodded. 

"You  seemed  so  much  more  affected  by  it  than 
most  people.  Of  course  when  you  said  you 
painted,  that  explained  a  little.  But  even  then 
— well,  it  was  rather  unexpected  in  a  young  man, 
especially — "  Mabel  smiled  slightly,  "please  for- 
give my  saying  so — in  you,  somehow !  It  wasn't 
only,  as  I  said  then,  that  you  were  associated  in 
my  mind  with  Africa  and  the  war,  but  you 
looked  so  exactly  like  a  person  whose  interests 
would  be  in  outdoor  life  and  adventure  and  that 
sort  of  thing.  Any  one  less  like  an  artist  and 


256  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

more  like — well,  what  you  really  were — one 
couldn't  imagine!" 

"How  do  you  know?"  Leslie  glanced  at  her 
quickly.  "What  one  really  is,  I  mean?" 

Mabel  smiled.  "Don't  make  me  drag  in  ta- 
booed subjects,"  she  said,  "that  isn't  fair!" 

Her  companion  looked  away. 

"Well,  this  evening she  continued, 

"when  you  were  telling  that  story,  I  noticed  the 
same  thing  again.  I  don't  know  how  well  you 
described  the  veld,  because  I've  never  been  there, 
but  you  made  me  feel  it  more  clearly  than  any- 
one else  ever  has,  simply  because — just  as  you 
voiced  something  of  my  own  emotions  about 
Italy  that  first  afternoon — you  touched  a  chord, 
just  now,  that  always  thrills  me  when  I  think 
of  big  open  spaces  at  night." 

Leslie  glanced  at  her.    "What  chord?" 

"Fear.  All  the  time  you  were  describing  sun- 
down and  the  coming  of  the  dark  and  the  wind, 
I  felt  as  if  I  were  listening  to  someone  who  had 
the  same  nightmarish  dread  of  being  lost  in 
places  like  the  veld,  as  I  have  myself,  instead 
of- 

"Instead  of  what?" 

Mabel  laughed.  "Instead  of  the  person  Gen- 
eral Mackworth  calls  'the  greatest  living  author- 
ity on  the  number  of  steps  it  takes  to  stroll  from 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  257 

one  end  of  it  to  the  other' !  Now  do  you  see  how 
puzzling  you  can  make  yourself?  You  talk 
about  Italy  like  an  artist  and  you  talk  of  the 
veld  like  a " 

"Like  what?" 

Mabel  looked  at  him.  "Well — like  an  artist 
too,  I  suppose." 

Leslie  leaned  forward,  suddenly  pale.  "I 
don't!"  he  said,  "I  feel  that  way!" 

"What  way?" 

"The  way  you  describe!  I  wasn't  talking 
about  the  veld  any  more  than  about  Italy.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  I  didn't  know  I  was" — he  hesi- 
tated— "well,  giving  myself  away,  but — appar- 
ently I  was !"  He  gave  a  short  laugh. 

Mabel  gazed  at  him.  "Do  you  mean  you 
know  what  it's  like,  to  be" — she  hesitated — 
"to  be  nervous,  in  such  circumstances?" 

Leslie  nodded.    "Yes — rather!" 

For  a  moment  Mabel  remained  silent;  then 
she  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  "And  yet  you " 

"What?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  see ?"  she  exclaimed,  half- 

laughing,  half  in  vexation.  "Don't  you  see  how 
this  absurd — what  am  I  to  call  it? — modesty — 
sensitiveness — of  yours,  defeats  everything? 
How  can  we  talk  like  this  if  you  won't  allow  me 
even  to  mention  the  thing  it  all  turns  upon? 


258  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

You  tell  me  something  that  is  intensely  inter- 
esting— something  I  never  imagined  for  a  mo- 
ment, that  makes  the  whole  story  of  what  you 
did — of  your  staying  with  Gerald — immeasur- 
ably more  wonderful  and  exciting,  and  then  you 
won't  let  me— 

"But  it  doesn't!"  cried  Leslie.  "It's  the 
other  way  round!  I  tell  you,  you  don't  under- 
stand! It  isn't  only  you.  I've  tried  to  explain 
from  the  start,  but  nobody  pays  the  slightest 
attention.  They  won't  listen!" 

"But  what  is  it  you  want  to  explain?" 

"That  there's  been  a  mistake — that  the  whole 
thing's  wrong  from  start  to  finish!" 

"But- 

"It's  Daneborough  who  ought  to  have  the 
V.C.,  not  me!" 

"Gerald?" 

"Yes!  Don't  you  see?  I  was  no  good!  I'd 
have  lost  my  way  in  a  moment,  or  got  caught 
—you've  forgotten  the  Amatonga!  And  when 
I  was  carrying  him  he  did  it  all — knew  the  way 
and  found  water  and  everything!"  Leslie 
stopped  breathless,  his  face  flushed. 

Mabel  gazed  at  him.  "Is  that  all?"  she  en- 
quired, after  a  pause. 

He  stared  at  her.    "Yes — at  least " 

She  leaned  a  little  nearer;  through  the  gather- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  259 

ing  dusk  the  oval  of  her  face  shone  close  to 
his. 

He  stammered.     "No — at  the  start,  I " 

he  stopped. 

For  a  moment  Mabel  waited,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  his,  a  faint  smile  on  her  lips;  then  she  put 
out  her  hand. 

"You  silly  boy,"  she  said  gently,  "I  know 
all  that — so  does  every  one!  Of  course  you 
couldn't  find  your  way  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
You'd  only  been  in  the  country  a  few  weeks! 
It's  just  because  you  were  so  new  to  it  all  that 
your  staying  with  Gerald  was  so  splendid. 
And  now — after  what  you've  told  me  this  even- 
ing, I  realise  better  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world  how  fine  it  was!  Thank  you  for  telling 
me  that!" 

The  clock  in  the  campanile  below  clanged  out 
loudly. 

"Good  heavens!"    Mabel  jumped  up.    "I  had 
no  idea  it  was  so  late.    Cousin  Grace  will  think 
something  dreadful  has  happened.     Come!  we 
must  go  immediately.    Where's  the  path?" 
Leslie  rose  slowly.     "Over  there." 
He  followed  her  across  the  grass ;  by  the  open- 
ing in  the  bushes  he  halted.    "I  wish,"  he  stam- 
mered, "you'd  let  me  explain!  I  can't  bear- 
Mabel  put  her  hand  lightly  on  his  arm.    "Not 


260  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

now — please!  We  must  go — really.  And  be- 
sides," she  paused,  "I  do  mind  your  being  like 
that,  with  me.  .  .  .  You  almost  made  me 
think  there  was  some  real  tragedy,  just  now. 
It's  sweet  of  you  to  feel  as  you  do  about  it  all — 
but,  you  mustn't  be  stupid,  you  know,  and 
frighten  your  friends !" 

She   smiled   and   stepped   on   to   the   path. 
"Come!    You  must  go  first  and  lead  the  way." 


CHAPTER   XIII 

HUGH  MACK  WORTH,  dressed  in  a  major- gen- 
eral's full  uniform  and  wearing  a  long  row  of 
medals  and  orders  on  his  breast,  strolled  across 
the  hall  of  the  Whiphams'  house  near  Windsor. 
After  placing  his  cocked  hat  and  white  gloves 
on  a  chair  by  the  wall  be  unbuckled  his  sword 
and  laid  it  beside  them;  then  he  turned  to  a 
large  round  table,  littered  with  books,  news- 
papers, and  magazines  which  stood  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  floor,  and  opened  the  morning  pa- 
per. 

Through  the  widely-opened  double-door  the 
sun  was  shining  brilliantly;  the  broad,  white 
steps  leading  down  to  the  carriage  drive,  the 
gravel  and  the  lawn  beyond,  all  presented  the 
sparkling  trimness  of  aspect  which  it  is  the 
peculiar  privilege  of  inanimate  things  in  the 
English  countryside  to  wear  on  a  fine  summer 
morning.  Within,  the  chintz  covers,  the  pol- 
ished furniture  legs,  and  the  gilt  frames  of  the 
family  portraits,  diffused  a  scarcely  less  joy- 
ous, though  more  subdued  radiance,  while  a 

261 


262  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

multitude  of  freshly-cut  roses  in  bowls  and 
vases  filled  the  place  with  fragrance. 

A  door  opened  behind  him,  and  Lady  Grace, 
wearing-  a  morning  gown  and  carrying  an  arm- 
ful of  account  books  and  seedsmen's  catalogues, 
entered.  She  paused  on  her  way  across  the 
floor. 

"Dressed  already,  Hugh?" 

Mackworth  glanced  up.  "Yes,  I've  got  to  go 
over  to  the  Castle  early." 

"How  nice  you  look,  dear!  I  didn't  know 
you  had  so  many  medals.  What  are  they  all 
for?" 

The  general  went  back  to  his  reading.  "Oh, 
various  things,  Aunt." 

Lady  Grace  disengaged  a  forefinger  and 
pointed.  "What's  that  one?  Sir  Michael  de 
Bathe-Hunter  was  wearing  one  just  like  it  the 
other  evening." 

Her  nephew  squinted  down  at  the  decora- 
tion in  question.  "Yes.  We  won  that  together. 
It  was  a  great  day.  Nearly  did  for  me — let 
alone  your  old  friend !  I  can  still  hear  his  cries 
for  brandy  as  I  rode  off  and  left  him  when  all 
was  over." 

"But  why  did  you,  Hugh?"  exclaimed  Lady 
Grace,  much  shocked.  "Was  he  wounded? 
Where  did  you  leave  him?" 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  263 

"At  the  door  of  the  'Senior.'  I'm  not  a 
member."  The  other  returned  to  his  paper. 
"That's  the  Jubilee  medal,  Aunt." 

His  relative  turned  away  with  a  sniff.  Ar- 
riving at  a  big  writing-table  near  the  window 
she  bent  her  knees  and  deposited  the  house- 
books  in  a  small  avalanche.  She  picked  up  one 
and  fingered  the  pages  absently. 

Mackworth,  pulling  forward  a  chair,  sat 
down. 

"Hugh!"  Lady  Grace  glanced  up  from  her 
account  book. 

"Well,  Aunt  Grace?" 

His  companion  took  a  big  breath.  "I  wish 
you  would  tell  me,  Hugh!" 

"Tell  you  what?"  The  general  lowered  the 
Times  and  stared  at  her. 

"Oh,  you  know!"  Lady  Grace  met  his  eye 
appealingly. 

Her  nephew's  head  disappeared  again  behind 
the  paper.  "Oh,  don't  bother,  Aunt — there's  a 
good  sort!" 

"But  I  can't  help  bothering,  Hugh!"  Lady 
Grace  dropped  her  book  agitatedly.  "You 
won't  tell  me  anything — you  don't  seem  to  do 
anything  and  everything  is  going  wrong! 
What's  the  use  of  your  being  my  favourite 
nephew  if  you  won't  tell  me  anything?" 


264  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"I  don't  know." 

"Don't  know  what?" 

There  was  no  reply.  Lady  Grace  stared  at  a 
widely-opened  sheet  of  the  largest  daily  jour- 
nal in  the  kingdom.  "What  don't  you  know, 
Hugh?  Do  speak!" 

Mackworth  dropped  his  improvised  shelter 
with  a  gesture  of  some  irritation.  "I  say,  I 
don't  know  what's  the  use  of  being  your  fa- 
vourite nephew,  if  you're  going  to  worry  me 
about  things  I'd  rather  not  talk  about!  Please 
don't,  Aunt." 

His  relative  pushed  a  chair  aside  and  moved 
towards  the  table.  "You  know  how  much  I 
want  you  to  settle  down,  Hugh?" 

The  general  flicked  some  dust  off  the  gold 
lace  of  his  cuff  and  glanced  back  at  the  cricket 
news. 

"Don't  you?"  demanded  Lady  Grace,  per- 
suasively. 

"Not  being  deaf  or  a  complete  idiot,  I  do!" 

"Well "  continued  the  other,  somewhat 

reassured,  moving  nearer,  "do  be  sensible,  dear. 
It  would  be  so  good  for  you  in  every  way.  I 
know  you've  done  very  well  in  the  army  and  all 
that,  but  every  one  says — people  who  really 
know — that  there  are  not  going  to  be  any  more 
wars,  and  it's  so  silly  spending  your  time  in 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  265 

places  like  India  and  Egypt  when  you  might  be 
at  home.  Look  at  Sir  Michael!  He's  Deputy 
Ranger,  or  something,  of  Tooting  Common. 
That  would  be  just  the  thing  for  you!  It's 
very  well  paid  and  it's  a  sort  of  court  appoint- 
ment. Think  of  the  difference  if  you  got  that, 
and  married — well,  someone  with  a  little  money. 
You'd  have  quite  a  decent  income  when  you 
succeeded." 

"My  income's  all  right." 

"How  can  you  say  that,  Hugh!  You  know 
what  a  time  you've  had  to  keep  out  of  debt  ever 
since  you  went  in  to  the  4th  Lancers." 

"I  said  there  was  nothing  wrong  with  my 
income"  responded  the  other  flippantly,  pre- 
paring to  rise.  "Neither  there  would  be  if  it 
weren't  frittered  away  paying  tradesmen's 
bills." 

"I'm  not  asking  you  to  marry  for  money, 
Hugh."  Lady  Grace  waved  him  down.  "You 
know  I  wouldn't  do  that.  Of  course,  Mabel 
is  well  off",  but " 

"Now,  Auntie "  her  nephew  rose  firmly, 

"you  ought  to  know  better  than  to  begin  match- 
making at  your  age!" 

"I'm  doing  nothing  of  the  sort!"  rejoined 
the  other,  incensed.  "You  know  you've  been 
in  love  with  Mabel  for  years!  She's  my  fa- 


266  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

vourite  niece — she's  much  more  of  a  niece  than 
a  cousin — and  you're  my  favourite " 

"Oh,  Lord!"    The  general  beat  his  brow. 

"Yes,  you  are!"  And  because  I  want  to  see 
you  two  married,  it's  absurd  to  say  I'm  match- 
making. If  you  call  it  that  then  I'm  old-fash- 
ioned enough  to  believe  that  matches  are  made 
in  heaven!" 

Mackworth  smoothed  the  front  of  his  tunic. 
"Someone  said  that  that  was  only  because  the 
fire  in  the  other  place  never  goes  out." 

"Hugh!"  Lady  Grace's  cheeks  became 
pink.  "I'm  ashamed  of  you!  I  don't  believe 
anyone  said  that  except  yourself!  It's  just  the 
sort  of  horrid  thing  you're  always  saying.  And 
— and  I  think  it's  horrid  of  you  to  speak  like  that 
when — when—  "  she  paused  and,  digging  in 
her  waistband,  produced  a  handkerchief. 

"Sorry,  Aunt!"  her  nephew  patted  her  lightly 
on  the  back.  "Don't  worry  about  me — I'll  be 
all  right." 

"But  you  won't!"  complained  the  other,  still 
sniffing  in  her  handkerchief. 

"Yes  I  shall — you'll  see!"  rejoined  the  gen- 
eral cheerily.  "If  your  friends  are  correct  and 
the  millennium  is  really  come  I  promise  to  beat 
my  sword  into  a  billhook,  or  whatever  old 
Hunter  ranges  Tooting  with,  when  I  reach  his 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  267 

age.  But  in  the  meantime  let  us  take  a  less 
gloomy  view  and  hope  that  battle,  murder  and 
sudden  death  will  give  a  fellow  a  chance  be- 
fore that  rather  distant  date  arrives." 

"And  that'll  mean  you'll  go  and  get  killed 
before  you've  even  tried  marrying  Mabel !" 

"  'Marrying  Mabel,'  as  you  express  it,  isn't 
an  experiment  any  one  can  make  who  wants  to, 
Aunt  Grace!" 

"Other  people  will,  if  you  don't.  Let  me 
tell  you  that!"  responded  the  old  lady  crossly. 

"Hadn't  we  better  leave  that  to  her?"  Mack- 
worth  spoke  a  little  sharply.  "Now,  Aunt,  let 
me  go,  please!"  He  pushed  gently  past  her 
and,  going  to  the  chair  by  the  wall,  lifted  his 
sword  and  began  to  buckle  it  on. 

"Do  wait,  Hugh — you're  so  impatient!  It's 
so  unkind  to  always  lose  your  temper  just  be- 
cause I  want  you  and  Mabel  to  marry!"  The 
speaker  paused,  and  then,  as  her  companion, 
without  replying,  bent  and  picked  up  his  gloves, 
she  continued,  desperately.  "You're  ruining 
everything  by  'leaving  it  to  her,'  as  you  call  it! 
Don't  you  see  that  while  you're  standing  doing 
nothing  Mabel  is  making  a  fool  of  herself — 
allowing  herself  to — to — get  mixed  up 
with " 

"Steady,  Aunt!" 


268  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Yes,  she  is!  I  can't  help  it!  I'm  out  of 
all  patience  with  Mabel!  I  don't  know  what's 
come  over  her.  First  of  all,  just  when  things 
were  going  so  nicely  she  writes  and  asks  Ger- 
ald Daneborough  to  come  to  Lake  Como.  She 
wasn't  in  love  with  him!  She  hadn't  seen  him 
for  eight  years.  She'd  no  idea  whether  she'd 
even  like  him!  All  she  cared  about  was  that 
he'd  been  tremendously  in  love  with  her  when 
he  went  abroad  and  she  wanted  to  see  whether 
he'd  do  for  her  to  make  herself  into  a  story 
with.  That's  the  way  with  romantic  people — 
they  think  of  no  one  but  themselves!  She 
wouldn't  listen  to  me.  Any  fool  might  have 
known  what  one  of  those  Raymonds  would 
be  like  after  being  a  common  policeman  for 
eight  years!  He  can't  even  behave  decently 


"Daneborough  isn't  a  bad  chap." 

"Isn't  he?  He's  not  a  gentleman,  anyway! 
Look  at  the  way  he's  been  carrying  on  with 
Mabel's  nurse!" 

"My  dear  Aunt—  Mackworth  adjusted 
a  buckle  of  his  sword  belt,  "remember  he's  been 
a  policeman!  All  members  of  the  'Force'  are 
like  that  where  nurses  are  concerned.  It's  the 
blue  blood  coming  out!" 

"Well,   it's    disgusting!      Mabel   pretended 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  269 

she  didn't  notice,  but  every  one  else  did.  Any- 
way, it  nipped  that  romance  in  the  bud!  But 
now "  Lady  Grace  paused  and  glanced  ap- 
prehensively at  her  companion,  who  was  slowly 
buttoning  his  gloves.  "Hugh,  I  simply  don't 
know  what  to  think!  You  think  I'm  a  stupid 
old  woman,  but  you're  wrong.  I  am  older  than 
you,  and  I  am  a  woman  and  I  do  know  more 
about  them  than  you  do.  Mabel  may  fancy 
she'd  be  happy  married  to  young  Leslie.  She 
thinks  her  romantic  side  is  the  best  thing  in  her. 
It  isn't,  it's  the  worst!  I  don't  mind  as  long 
as  she  keeps  it  for  her  books  and  pictures,  but 
it's  going  to  ruin  her  if  it  gets  the  upper  hand 
of  her  with  people — it  just  becomes  selfishness 
then!  If  she  marries  with  her  head  full  of  it 
she'll  be  judging  everything  the  man  does  by 
the  way  it  fits  in  with  her  story.  She'll  feel 
she's  given  up  everything  to  marry  him  and,  in 
return,  she'll  expect  him  to  be  romantic!  A  nice 
thing  to  expect  of  a  man  you're  going  to  live 
with !  And  she'll  be  as  hard  as  nails  if  he  isn't. 
All  his  other  good  points  will  go  for  nothing. 
I  know  Mabel — she's  a  dear,  there's  no  one  I'm 
so  fond  of — but  she  won't  bear  being  unhappy 
again — having  what  she  calls  her  ideals  shat- 
tered a  second  time!" 

Lady  Grace  paused  for  breath;  Mackworth, 


270  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

whose  eyes  had  wandered  to  the  window  be- 
fore him,  moved  slightly. 

"Hugh!"  the  speaker  turned  appealingly. 
"Don't  you  understand?  It  isn't  only  that  I 
want  you  and  Mabel  to  marry — I  want  her  to 
be  happy!  She'd  never  be  happy  with  that 
young  Leslie — never  in  this  world!"  The  old 
lady  put  out  her  hand.  "Don't  go  on  like  this ! 
Don't  lose  your  chance!  Perhaps  I've  said 
things  about  Mabel  just  now  that  sounded  hor- 
rid. It  isn't  like  that.  She'd  be  the  dearest 
girl  in  the  world  if  she  only  married  the  right 
man.  She  had  a  difficult  time  with  Jack — we 
know  that — and  now  she's  got  it  into  her  head 
that  her  only  chance  of  being  happy  is  this  ro- 
mantic stuff — expecting  goodness-knows-what 
from  the  man  she  marries.  So  she  falls  in  love 
with  people  who  aren't  real  people  at  all,  and 
of  course,  they  do  all  right,  for  the  moment — 
till  she  finds  out." 

"But  she  might  find  out  I  wasn't  real 
either." 

"She  couldn't!"  Lady  Grace  moved  close 
to  him  excitedly.  "You  are  real !  Any  one  can 
see  what  you  are.  You  don't  suppose  she  could 
be  romantic  about  you!  You're  just  the  sort  of 
man  for  a  girl  like  Mabel  to  marry.  You're 
the  right  age,  she's  known  you  a  long  time,  and 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  271 

you're  nice.  That's  what  really  matters!  Lots 
of  people  aren't.  If  Mabel  married  one  of  the 
wrong  kind  now  it  would  break  her  heart,  and 
if  you  did,  I  believe  you'd  beat  her!  That's 
where  you  have  such  an  advantage.  Mabel 
knows  that." 

"Aunt!  Really!"  interjected  her  nephew, 
staring. 

"Yes,  you  would!  You  know  what  I  mean! 
She  knows  that  although  you'd  be  awfully 
good  to  her — and,  of  course,  she'd  be  proud  of 
you — you're  still  very  nice-looking  and  people 
seem  to  think  you're  funny — Still  all  the  same 
she  knows  you  wouldn't  stand  any  nonsense — 
that  she'd  have  to  be  nice  to  you.  And  when 
a  wife  sets  out  to  be  really  nice  to  her  husband, 
she  hasn't  time  for  much  else !  And  that  would 
make  a  girl  like  Mabel  perfectly  happy!  Do 
you  suppose  I'd  be  happy  with  Peter  for  a  day 
if  I  thought  about  myself?  Well,  it's  the  same 
with  her — it's  the  same  with  all  women  who're 
nice  at  all." 

"Perhaps  she  won't  marry  anybody." 

"Nonsense!"  Lady  Grace  crumpled  her 
handkerchief  and  poked  it  into  her  waistband. 
"Mabel  could  no  more  help  marrying  than  she 
could  help "  she  paused  in  search  of  a  meta- 
phor. 


272  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Flying?"  suggested  the  other. 

"Yes — no."  Lady  Grace  turned  away,  fa- 
tigued. "You  know  what  I  mean!" 

The  sunlight  shone  with  increased  brilliance 
upon  the  white  steps  and  the  lawn ;  through  the 
open  door  came  a  sleepy  hum  of  insects,  and  a 
trio  of  buccaneering  wasps,  among  the  roses 
on  the  hall  table,  buzzed  intermittently. 

General  Mackworth  lifted  his  cocked  hat 
from  the  chair,  smoothed  its  plumes  and  turned 
to  his  companion.  "Well,  goodbye,  just  now, 
Aunt  Grace,"  he  said,  "I  must  be  going." 

"You'll  think  of  what  I've  said?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied  seriously,  "I  shall.  Thank 
you."  He  bent  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

Lady  Grace  put  her  hand  among  the  medals 
on  his  breast.  "And  you'll  do  something  be- 
fore it's  too  late?" 

"Aunt,  I'm  not  such  an  ass  as  I  look.  Of 
course  I  shall,  if  I  get  half  a  chance.  Good- 
bye!" 

Lifting  his  sword,  he  moved  round  the  table 
towards  the  steps.  As  he  paused  on  the  thresh- 
old, a  door  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall  opened 
and  Mabel  entered. 

"Ah,  here  you  are,  dear!"  exclaimed  Lady 
Grace  brightly. 

Mabel  walked  slowly  towards  them.     "Good 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  273 

morning,  Cousin  Grace.  Good  morning,  Gen- 
eral." 

"Good  morning,  dear."  Lady  Grace  kissed 
the  newcomer  affectionately.  "You  look  tired. 
Nothing  wrong,  is  there?" 

"Nothing  at  all.  I  didn't  sleep  very  well. 
Are  you  just  off?"  she  continued,  turning  to 
Mackworth. 

The  general  smiled.    "Just." 

"Shall  I  ring  for  the  carriage,  Hugh?"  en- 
quired Lady  Grace. 

"No,  thanks,  I  want  to  go  round  to  the  sta- 
bles about  something." 

Lady  Grace  glanced  at  her  cousin.  "Won't 
you  go  and  see  him  off,  Mabel?  The  air  will 
do  you  good." 

Mabel  shook  her  head.  "I'd  love  to,"  she 
said,  "but  the  truth  is,  I've  got  rather  a  head- 
ache this  morning,  and  I'm  a  little  afraid  of 
the  sun."  She  turned  towards  the  table. 

"Of  course — don't  think  of  it!  So  sorry." 
The  general  retreated  hastily  across  the 
threshold.  "Good-bye — see  you  all  later!" 

"Yes."  Mabel  waved  her  hand  and  went  to 
the  door.  "How  splendid  you  look!"  she  said, 
smiling. 

Mackworth,  descending  the  steps,  looked  over 
his  shoulder.  "Don't !"  He  pointed  laughingly 


274  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

to  his  spurs.  "You '11  make  me  fall!"  On  reach- 
ing the  gravel  he  saluted  cheerily  as  Mabel 
waved  again,  and,  turning  to  the  left,  disap- 
peared along  a  side  path  towards  the  stables. 

Mabel  moved  indoors  to  the  big  table,  and 
opened  an  illustrated  paper. 

Lady  Grace  looked  up  from  her  accounts. 
"They're  all  coming  over  to  tea  after  the  af- 
fair at  the  Castle  is  over." 

"Who  are  'all,'  Cousin  Grace?" 

"Lord  Daneborough,  Mr.  Leslie,  Bertie  Ve- 
sey- Vivian  and  that  Captain  Robertson." 

"Oh." 

"And  I've  asked  Dr.  Florio.  He's  in  Lon- 
don attending  a  conference." 

"That  will  be  nice." 

Lady  Grace  tore  the  wrapper  from  a  seed 
catalogue.  "I  had  to  ask  the  others  as  we're 
so  near  Windsor,"  she  continued  peevishly.  "I 
didn't  think  they'd  all  come.  I  thought,  of 
course,  that  Mr.  Leslie  would  have  some  people 
of  his  own  he'd  be  going  to  after  getting  his 
V.C.!" 

"His  people  live  in  Ireland,  I  think." 

"Well,  surely  he's  got  some  friends,  hasn't 
he?" 

Mabel  glanced  listlessly  over  the  pages  of 
the  magazine  without  replying. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  275 

Lady  Grace  turned  in  her  chair.  "Who  is 
Mr.  Leslie,  Mabel?" 

"You've  asked  me  that  before,  Cousin  Grace. 
I  really  don't  know.  I've  never  asked  him." 

"Well,  Z  have,  and  I  couldn't  get  anything 
out  of  him!  I  don't  think  he's  a  gentleman!" 

"He's  a  friend  of  ours!"  said  the  other, 
quietly. 

"He  is  in  a  way,"  Lady  Grace  turned  crossly 
back  to  her  desk.  "But  that  doesn't  prevent  one 
noticing  things — look  at  his  letter!"  Picking 
up  an  envelope  from  amid  a  litter  of  papers 
beside  her,  she  leaned  from  her  chair  and  handed 
it  to  her  companion. 

Mabel  glanced  through  the  missive  without 
comment. 

"Well?" 

"Well,  Cousin  Grace." 

"Don't  you  see  what  I  mean?" 

"Not  in  the  least.    It  seems  a  very  nice  note." 

"There's  nothing  either  nice  or  the  reverse 
in  it!"  retorted  the  old  lady.  "What  I  mean 
is,  the  man  doesn't  know  how  to  write !  He  calls 
Lord  Daneborough  'the  Marquis  of  Danebor- 
ough,'  when  he  says  he'll  be  delighted  to  come 
over  here  with  him.  He  might  as  well  say  he 
was  coming  over  with  John  Jones,  Esquire! 
Look  at  the  address !" 


276  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Involuntarily  Mabel  glanced  at  the  envelope 
in  her  hand. 

"He  doesn't  even  put  a  'The'  before  my 
name !" 

Mabel  folded  the  letter  and  handed  it  back 
to  her  cousin  in  silence. 

"Don't  you  agree  with  me,  Mabel?"  demand- 
ed the  latter  sharply. 

"No,  Cousin  Grace,  I  don't.  He  hasn't  ad- 
dressed his  envelope  properly  and  it  looks  rather 
silly  to  write  of  Lord  Daneborough  in  that  way, 
but  it  doesn't  prove  that  Mr.  Leslie  isn't  a  gen- 
tleman." 

Lady  Grace  sniffed.  "Doesn't  it?  With  the 
other  things  I've  noticed— 

"No,"  interrupted  the  other.  "It  merely 
means  that  he  doesn't  happen  to  have  lived 
among  people  with  titles — not  that  he  hasn't 
been  brought  up  among  gentlefolk.  I  thought 
every  one  knew  that  England  was  different 
from  other  countries  in  that  way — that  there 
were  thousands  of  nice  people  who  have  no 
title,  nor  any  particular  connection  with  people 
who  have." 

"It  depends  on  what  you  mean  by  'nice' !" 

"I  mean  nice  as  Mr.  Leslie  is." 

"Exactly — have  it  your  own  way,  Mabel ;  you 
are  very  obstinate!  But  let  me  tell  you  this!" 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  277 

Lady  Grace  dropped  the  offending  note  on  her 
table.  "If  a  woman  who  has  been  brought  up 
as  you  have — I  say  no  more — has  a  great  deal 
to  do  with  'nice'  people  of  that  kind  who  don't 
know  the  mere  elements  of  behaviour  of  the  class 
to  which  she  belongs — she's  going  to  find  herself 
rubbed  up  the  wrong  way  more  often  than  she 
expected.  I'm  not  saying  anything  against 
either  them  or  her,  but  there  it  is!" 

Mabel  made  no  reply ;  the  older  lady,  pulling 
a  pair  of  spectacles  from  a  case  attached  to 
her  waistband,  gave  her  chair  a  jerk  forward 
and  went  back  to  her  accounts. 

A  sleepy  quiet  fell  on  the  room.  Mabel,  her 
face  resting  on  her  hand,  gazed  over  the  top 
of  the  pages  before  her  at  the  polished  surface 
of  the  table. 

Her  reverie  was  broken  by  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps outside.  Sir  Peter,  carrying  a  spud  and 
wearing  extremely  shabby  country  clothes  with 
a  battered  straw  hat  on  his  head,  appeared  at 
the  door.  "Mornin',  Mabel,"  he  remarked.  "I 
say,  Grace,  it  was  your  infernal  cat  that  ate 
the  chickens — not  a  fox.  Told  you  it  was !" 

His  wife  was  counting  on  her  fingers. 
"Three,  nine,  six — eighteen;  sixpence  and  carry 
one.  Nonsense !" 

"It  isn't  nonsense,  woman !"  Sir  Peter  rapped 


278  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

with  his  spud  on  the  door.  "I  saw  his  feathers 
on  the  wire.  You  don't  find  foxes  with  black 
fur!" 

"Well,  I  can't  help  it.  Do  go  away!  I'm 
busy.  Seven,  eleven,  four — twenty-one;  and 
sixpence.  One  pound  and  sixpence — no,  one 
pound  one  and  sixpence.  Has  he  gone,  Ma- 
bel?" 

"Yes,  he  saw  Sims  on  the  lawn — he's  gone 
to  speak  to  him." 

"What  about?" 

The  other  leaned  forward  and  stared  through 
the  door.  "I  think  he's  telling  him  what  he 
said  just  now — about  the  chickens.  Yes — 
you'd  better  go,  Cousin  Grace,  he's  imitating 
Tom  pouncing!" 

"Drat  the  man!"  Lady  Grace  threw  down 
her  pen  and  jumped  up.  "Sims  hates  Tom!" 
She  crossed  the  room  hurriedly,  ran  down  the 
steps,  and,  joining  the  others,  marched  them 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  stables. 

Mabel  watched  them  disappear  among  the 
rhododendron  bushes  that  flanked  the  house, 
then,  after  moving  slowly  across  the  floor, 
picked  up  her  magazine  and  sank  into  a  chair. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

FOR  some  moments  she  sat  without  moving, 
her  elbows  on  the  table,  the  opened  pages  of 
the  magazine  disregarded  before  her.  Then,  as 
a  door  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall  opened,  she 
started  and  raised  her  face  from  her  hands. 

Bishop  Raymond  crossed  the  floor  towards 
her.  "All  alone,  Mabel?" 

She  glanced  over  her  shoulder  and  smiled 
faintly.  "Yes." 

"I've  just  seen  Mackworth  off  in  all  his  war- 
paint," remarked  the  other,  leaning  on  the  back 
of  a  chair  beside  her.  "What  a  charming  fel- 
low he  is!" 

Mabel  resumed  her  former  attitude,  her  chin 
on  her  hands.  "He  teases  Cousin  Grace  too 
much!" 

The  bishop  smiled.  "I  don't  think  she  minds ; 
she's  devoted  to  him.  I'm  very  glad  to  have 
met  him.  He's  a  new  type  to  me — a  keen  sol- 
dier who's  seen  a  lot  of  service  and  yet  an  in- 
tellectual man  who's  not  ashamed  of  the  fact. 

279 


280  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Men  of  his  stamp  will  be  the  saving  of  our 
army." 

Mabel  made  no  response;  the  bishop,  slap- 
ping the  dust  of  the  stable  yard  from  his  black 
gaiters,  picked  up  a  book  and  was  about  to 
sit  down,  when  the  door  opened  and  Nurse 
Coxon  entered,  carrying  a  silver  tray  on  which 
was  a  tumbler  of  hot  milk  and  a  couple  of  bis- 
cuits on  a  plate.  He  bowed  as  she  approached 
and  was  greeted  by  a  curt  nod. 

Mabel  glanced  up  and  shook  her  head.  "No, 
thank  you,  Nurse — not  to-day,  please." 

Nurse  Coxon  stared  at  her  patient.  "The 
doctor  is  very  particular,  Mrs.  Arbuthnot " 

"I  can't  to-day — really!  I've  got  a  head- 
ache. If  you  think  Dr.  James  would  like  me 
to  take  some  soup  instead " 

"I'm  not  here  to  think  what  you  should  take, 
Mrs.  Arbuthnot.  Dr.  James  has  ordered  milk 
— if  you  won't  take  it  there's  nothing  more  to 
be  said!" 

Mabel  made  no  reply.  Nurse  Coxon,  sweep- 
ing some  magazines  out  of  the  way,  put  down 
the  salver  with  a  clatter.  "I'll  leave  it  here  in 
case  you  change  your  mind!" 

Bishop  Raymond,  who  had  been  glancing 
over  the  pages  of  his  book,  looked  up  sharply 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  281 

and  followed  the  speaker  with  his  eyes  as  she 
turned  her  back  and  walked  across  the  hall. 

Mabel  picked  up  her  handkerchief  and 
pressed  it  to  her  face;  as  the  door  closed,  she 
sobbed  startlingly. 

The  bishop  put  down  his  book  and,  step- 
ping beside  her,  placed  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

For  a  moment  she  shook  convulsively,  then, 
as  her  companion  removed  his  hand  and  stood 
quietly  at  her  side,  she  wiped  her  eyes  and 
glanced  up.  "Sorry,  St.  John!" 

"What  is  it,  Mabel?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know "  she  dabbed  her 

cheeks  with  the  handkerchief;  as  another  sob 
overtook  her  she  reached  out  a  hand  suddenly. 
"I'm  so — so  miserable!" 

The  bishop  turned  a  vindictive  glance  at 
the  door.  "If  it's  that  wretched  nurse 

"Hush  St.  John!"  Mabel  smiled  faintly 
through  her  tears.  "It  wasn't  that — at  least  not 
exactly.  I  suppose  I'm  not  very  well  to-day — 
and  if  people  are  rude,  it  hurts.  But — 

"But  why  do  you  keep  her,  Mabel?  She  may 
be  efficient  but  there  are  thousands  as  good  in 
London  who  are  nice  too.  Forgive  me  for  in- 
terfering, but— 

"Don't,  St.  John.  Never  mind  about  her." 
Mabel  dropped  an  arm  on  the  table  and  mechan- 


282  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

ically  fingered  the  edges  of  a  book.  "I'm  mis- 
erable and—  "  she  stopped;  for  a  moment  she 
seemed  about  to  break  down  again.  Her  com- 
panion put  out  his  hand  and  laid  it  on  hers; 
she  clutched  his  fingers  and,  controlling  herself 
with  an  effort,  glanced  up  at  his  face;  then 
dropped  her  eyes  again. 

"You  believe  in  confession,  don't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Could  you  help  me? — I've  nobody "  she 

paused,  her  eyes  on  the  book  before  her. 

Bishop  Raymond  released  her  hand.  "I  don't 
know,"  he  said  simply.  "I'll  try." 

"For  some  moments  she  remained  silent;  at 
length  she  spoke  in  a  low  voice.  "St.  John — is 
it  wicked  to  fall  in  love?" 

"No." 

"Not  even  if — if  it  all  seems — impossible?" 

The  bishop  waited.  "You  must  help  me  a 
little,"  he  said  gently. 

"I  mean  if  you  know  that  everybody  will 
be  against  it — that  it  will  make  some  people 
very  unhappy — that  it  means  giving  up  a  great 
deal  that  we  are  told  matters "  she  stopped. 

"No,"  responded  the  other  slowly.  "It  some- 
times means  all  that." 

Mabel's  head  drooped  lower.  "Even  if  you're 
not  quite  sure  that  the  other  person  understands 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  283 

— cares And — wait!"  she  clasped  her 

hands  in  front  of  her  eyes.  "If  it  means — for 

oneself — caring  awfully "  she  paused  "  — in 

just  one  way."  Her  voice  died  away,  and  she 
sat  quite  still. 

"No."  The  bishop  spoke  with  an  effort.  "If 
the  heart  be  pure,  not  even  then  is  it  a  sin." 

The  other  remained  motionless  for  some  sec- 
onds; then  she  glanced  up.  "But  you 
think " 

"Ah,  that  is  another  matter."  Bishop  Ray- 
mond looked  away.  "One  that  concerns  this 
world." 

There  was  another  silence.  "I  see."  Ma- 
bel's voice  was  almost  inaudible.  "St.  John!" 
she  exclaimed,  "forget  that  you're  a  priest,  then. 
I've  no  one  else  to  help  me." 

Again  her  companion  paused  before  reply- 
ing. "I'll  try,  Mabel.  But "  he  hesitated, 

"my  advice  on  worldly  affairs — I've  lived  so 
far  from  that  sort  of  thing 

"That  is  why  I  turn  to  you!"  Mabel  looked 
up  quickly.  "Just  because  you  hate  worldly 
things  while  every  one  else  I  know  cares  about 
them — and  yet  because,  in  a  good  sense  of  the 
word,  you  can't  ever  help  being  'a  man  of  the 
world,'  too.  Don't  you  see?" 

"That  is  the  tragedy,  Mabel."     The  bishop 


284  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

glanced  at  her  sadly.  "I  think  I  guess  some- 
thing of  what  you  wish  to  tell  me.  As  a  priest 
—while  I  could  speak  with  a  mind  freed  from 
worldly  considerations  it  was  easy  enough;  for 
I  do  not  believe  that  what  may  be  in  your  heart 
is  wrong  in  the  sight  of  Almighty  God.  But 
that  it  may  be  foolish,  nay,  almost  wicked,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world,  our  world,  whose  wretched 
bondservant  I  still  am,  God  forgive  me — that,  I 
fear,  is  more  than  probable.  The  law  of  God 
is  righteous,  and,  as  I  understand  it,  very  mer- 
ciful to  those  who  love,  but  the  law  of  the  world 
is  exceeding  hard." 

"Then  you  do  think  me  a  fool?"  There  was 
a  defiant  note  in  Mabel's  voice. 

"You  must  tell  me  more,  if  you  wish  me  to 
help  you,"  responded  her  companion,  gently. 

"St.  John,  I  don't  know  how  to — I  can't  even 
understand  myself!  It's  so  lately  that  every- 
thing seems  to  have  changed  that "  she 

laughed  bitterly,  "I  don't  seem  to  have  got  ac- 
customed to  my  new  self!  You  know  what  I 
was  like  as  a  girl — you  know  how  it  used  to 
annoy  mother  that  I  was  wrapped  up  in  books 
and  art  even  after  I  came  out.  I  liked  having 
a  good  time,  too,  of  course,  and  I  liked  men's 

society,  and  I — I  fell  in  love,  and "  she 

paused,  "married.  But '  her  voice  sank, 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  285 

"it  wasn't  real.  At  least  it  wasn't  what  people — 
what  men,  call  love — ever!  That  was  hard  on 
Jack — perhaps  that  was  why  things  began  to 
go  wrong.  I  was  never  told — I  didn't  under- 
stand when  I  married — and  afterwards,  I 
couldn't;  I  tried  to,  but  I  couldn't!  And  my 
being  like  that  seemed  to  spoil  everything  for 

Jack — and "  her  voice  fell  to  a  whisper,  "he 

was  too  impatient.  ...  So  we  drifted  apart. 
We  got  on  well  enough,  so  far  as  the  world  was 
concerned — the  world  through  which  we  moved ; 
but  the  world  where  I  lived  and  had  my  being — 
the  world  of  pictures  and  poetry  and  romance 
where  I  hid  myself  like  a  lonely  child — Jack 
never  came  there:  he  hadn't  the  key.  And  yet 
— I  know  now  that  it  was  full—  "  she  paused, 
"of  emotions.  .  .  ."  She  looked  up  sudden- 
ly. "St.  John,  do  you  understand?  I  cannot. 
Through  all  the  centuries  they  have  talked  and 
written  of  the  life  of  the  spirit.  Like  other 
people  I  thought  it  was  the  great  mystery — 
the  only  thing  that  mattered — whether  under 
the  guise  of  religion  or  philosophy  or  the  wor- 
ship of  beauty  or  any  other  ideal—  But  now 

"  her  eyes  dropped,  "but  now  it  seems  to  me 

that  there  is  a  life  of  the  body  just  as  hard  to 
understand — more  mysterious.  Stronger,  St. 
John "  her  voice  trembled,  "it  seems  to  mat- 


286  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

ter  more — to  thrust  aside  everything — when  the 
time  conies!"  She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"But,  Mabel,  the  two  are  not  antagonistic! 
It  is  a  perversion  of  religion  to  regard  them  as 
such.  I  have  told  you  it  is  no  sin  to  love." 

"You  say  that  to  me,  St.  John "  his  com- 
panion rose  and  faced  him,  "because  I  am  a 
widow — because  Jack  has  been  dead  three  years ! 
Suppose  he  were  alive — suppose  I  were  living 
now,  as  I  lived  the  last  years  of  our  married 
life — alone,  miserable;  and  that,  while  I  was 
the  wife  of  another,  'the  man  with  the  golden 
key'  had  come  like  a  dream  in  the  night  to  throw 
open  my  heart — what  then,  St.  John?  Would 
not  that  have  been  sin?" 

Bishop  Raymond,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  soft 
distances  of  trees  and  sky,  made  no  response. 

"Wouldn't  it?"  Mabel  turned  to  him  imperi- 
ously. 

"Yes."  The  bishop  met  her  gaze  sadly.  "But 
the  man  would  have  been  the  greater  sinner." 

"In  this  case  you  would  have  had  your  Mas- 
ter's command  to  forgive  him;  'he  knew  not 
what  he  did!'" 

Bishop  Raymond  made  no  response,  his 
glance,  thoughtful  and  troubled,  went  back  to 
the  horizon. 

"Listen,  St.  John!    Jack  is  dead.     He  had 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  287 

ceased  to  love  me — he  had  made  us  both  very 
unhappy.  Why?  Because  I  had  come  to  love 
some  one  else?  No,  but  because  I  had  never 
learned  to  love  at  all — as  men  understand  love ! 
The  affection  I  gave  him  when  we  married — 
which  was  very  real,  St.  John — that  would  not 
do.  I  tell  you  it  would  have  been  better  if  this 
other  man,  the  man  with  the  key  had  come  and 
that  I  had  learned  what  love  was,  before  Jack 
died.  It  might  have  brought  me  nothing  but 
misery — that  is  almost  certain.  But  I  should 
have  been  delivered  from  a  worse  sin  than  lov- 
ing ever  is — I  should  never  have  hated  Jack — 
as  I  did  sometimes — I  should  never  have  been 
unfair — unkind!  I  should,  at  any  rate,  have 
understood!"  Mabel  pressed  her  hands  to  her 
cheeks  and  moved  unsteadily  towards  the  win- 
dow. 

"Forgive  me,  St.  John "  she  resumed,  in 

a  quieter  voice,  as  the  other  remained  silent. 
"But  you  see  it  is  difficult!  You  say  that  this 
thing,  which  would  have  been  so  wrong  then,  is 
all  right  now— 

"Pardon  me,  Mabel."  The  bishop  looked 
round.  "I  said  it  would  not  be  'sin.' ' 

"Exactly.  When,  through  my  own  suffer- 
ing, I  might  at  least  have  learned  what  love  was 
and  so  perhaps  have  saved  the  disaster  of  Jack's 


288  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

life — for  he  wasn't  unfaithful  by  nature,  and 
the  last  years  were  tragic  to  him  too — then,  you 
say,  love  would  have  been  sin.  Now  that  it 
seems  likely  to  bring  nothing  but  unhappiness, 
you  assure  me  that  in  God's  eyes  it  is  blame- 
less, although—  "  she  smiled  faintly,  "the  old 
Adam  of  Eton  and  Christchurch  is  panting  to 
add  how  unwise — how  wrong — not  wicked,  you 
know — but  wrong  it  would  be!  You  needn't, 
St.  John—  '  she  turned  wearily  back  to  the 
table.  "I  understand  all  that!" 

"But  if  you  say  it  can  only  bring  unhappi- 
ness— '  the  bishop  took  a  step  towards  her. 
"Why  go  on  with  it?  Is  it  fair — apart  from 
anything  else — is  it  fair  to  him — to  Mr.  Leslie? 
Do  forgive  me — I  am  trying  to  think  of  you 

and  him  only  as  woman  and  man,  but "  he 

paused. 

Mabel  smiled  again.  "You  are  thinking  that 
he's  not  even  a  man?"  she  said. 

Her  companion  started  and  glanced  at  her 
sharply. 

"Neither  he  is—  '  she  raised  her  hands  to 
her  hair  and  turned  slowly  to  the  window,  "this 
'man  with  the  golden  key.'  He  is  only  a  nice 
boy  who  doesn't  understand,  either,  and  who 

— "  she  smiled,  "in  spite  of  the  Victoria  Cross 
he  is  to  get  from  the  Queen  to-day,  would  be 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  289 

very  much  frightened  if  he  knew  what  he  has 
done !  Do  you  think  I  should  be  very  ashamed?" 
She  faced  her  companion.  "I  cannot  be — I 
have  learned  so  much,  somehow.  ...  I 

could  make  him  care  for  me.  But "  she 

looked  back  at  the  sunshine.  "I  dread "  she 

hesitated,  "the  thought  of  perhaps  failing  again 

He  has  the  right  to  expect  so  much  from 

life  and Am  I  able — for  it  all?  I  couldn't 

bear  to  make  him  unhappy  .  .  ."  She  turned 
impulsively.  "You  see,  St.  John,  I  don't  un- 
derstand !  I  do  see  him  as  the  hero  of  a  story — 
as  my  'Prince  of  Romance' — and  yet " 

"Take  care,  Mabel!  Take  care!"  Her  com- 
panion put  out  an  urgent  hand.  "For  God's 
sake  do  not  let  what  you  call  'romance'  fly  away 
with  you  in  this  case — in  this  case  of  all  others !" 

"Why  'in  this  case  of  all  others'?"  Mabel 
gazed  at  him  quietly. 

"I  have  reasons!  They  are  only  conjectures, 
and  may  be  seriously  unjust.  But  I  scarcely 
think  so."  Bishop  Raymond  paused. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  them?"  He  turned  to  the 
other,  who  was  slipping  a  ring  off  and  on  her 
finger. 

"No "  Mabel  spoke  a  little  breathlessly, 

"It's  no  good!  The  fact  is—  "  she  went  with 
a  restless  movement  to  the  table,  "there's  not 


290  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

much  to  be  gained  by  discussing  this.  I  was 
foolish  to  begin  it.  I've  said  more  than  I  should 
— even  to  you." 

"But,  Mabel " 

"Please,  St.  John — never  mind!"  She  moved 
beside  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"Help  me  about  something  else — something  I 
really  need  your  advice  about.  Will  you?" 

"Certainly."  The  bishop  looked  puzzled  and 
somewhat  put  out. 

"I'm  in  rather  a  difficulty."  Mabel  dropped 
her  arm  and  spoke  as  though  choosing  her 
words.  "It's  about  Nurse  Coxon.  You  remem- 
ber the  night  you  arrived  at  the  Hotel  Regina?" 
She  glanced  at  her  companion.  "There  was 
one  of  those  lake  storms?" 

Bishop  Raymond  nodded.  "Yes,  I  remem- 
ber. Most  unpleasant." 

"Well,  Mr.  Leslie's  room  was  next  to  mine, 
on  the  loggia,  you  know.  Just  after  he  arrived, 
while  he  was  standing  on  the  loggia,  the  storm 
came  on  and  he  jumped  into  my  room  by  mis- 
take. You  remember  what  a  tremendous  gust 
of  wind  there  was?  Well,  it  crashed  the  shut- 
ters to  behind  him  and  he  couldn't  open  them 
again.  He  was  just  going  by  the  door  when 
Nurse  Coxon  came  to  find  out  if  I  wanted  any- 
thing." 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  291 

"And  she  saw  him?" 

Mabel  knitted  her  brows.  "No,  she  didn't. 
Mr.  Leslie  was  silly — the  room  was  dark,  you 
know,  and  he  got  confused,  and  when  she  opened 
the  door  he  stepped  behind  the  screen  in  front 
of  the  washing-stand." 

"By  mistake,  do  you  mean?"  The  bishop 
looked  up  sharply. 

Mabel  hesitated.  "Yes — I  suppose  so.  But 
you  see  how  difficult  it  made  things.  I  had 
to  pretend  to  Nurse  Coxon  and  send  her  away." 

"Did  she  suspect  anything?" 

"I'm  afraid  so.  And  then  that  silly  busi- 
ness of  Dr.  Florio's  globe  next  afternoon — you 
remember?"  Mabel  smiled  faintly,  "when  Dr. 
Florio  said  we  all  looked  like  imps  in  the  In- 
ferno  " 

"Yes,  I  remember — but  how " 

"Mr.  Leslie  cut  his  head  against  my  globe 
in  the  dark,  so  he  brought  one  from  his  own 
room  to  replace  it.  He  didn't  notice  that  it 
was  one  of  Dr.  Florio's  red  ones,  and,  of  course 
— although  Dr.  Florio  explained  it  all  away  so 
cleverly  next  afternoon,  it  rather,  well,  gave  the 
show  away  from  Nurse  Coxon's  point  of  view!" 

Bishop  Raymond  plucked  at  his  beard.  "But, 
but,  it  is  rather  unpleasant,  Mabel!" 

"Yes,  it's  a  nuisance." 


292  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

The  bishop  glanced  at  the  door.  "I  dislike 
the  woman  particularly,  and  it  is  intolerable  to 

think  that  she  is  under  the  impression "  he 

looked  round.  "That  explains  her  manner?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  I  just  haven't  felt  able 
to  go  into  the  whole  business." 

"I  am  glad  you  told  me!    If  you  like  I  shall 

be  present  when  you  speak  to  her.     You  had 

better  do  so  on  the  next  occasion  when  she  is 

impertinent,  and  then  dismiss  her.    By  the  way 

— er — how  did  Mr.  Leslie  get  out?" 

"We  managed  to  open  the  window  finally.  It 
had  stuck  very  badly.  He  wanted  to  climb  out 
of  the  other  one  and  down  the  water-pipe." 
Mabel  smiled.  "I  was  quite  alarmed,  for  he 
wasn't  at  all  well  then,  and  I'm  sure  he'd  have 
killed  himself!"  She  picked  up  her  magazine 
and  moved  across  the  hall.  "There's  the  lunch 
gong;  we  must  go." 

"It  sounds  a  piece  of  rather  sorry  gasconade!" 
said  her  companion  contemptuously. 

Mabel  turned  as  they  reached  the  door,  her 
cheeks  flushed.  "In  another  person,  yes,  per- 
haps! You  forget  who  Mr.  Leslie  is.  I  knew 
I  had  to  deal  with  a  man  who,  whatever  his  lim- 
itations may  be,  is,  at  any  rate,  without  fear!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  sunshine  had  shifted  from  the  front 
of  the  house,  and  the  quiet  of  a  warm  after- 
noon lay  upon  the  gardens  and  lawns  as  Nurse 
Coxon  sauntered  up  the  steps  and  entered  the 
hall.  She  went  to  the  table  and  began  to  turn 
over  the  illustrated  papers. 

Nurse  Coxon's  appearance  had  some  of  the 
immobility  common  to  all  who  wear  the  garb  of 
a  sisterhood,  but  it  had  some  peculiar  to  herself 
as  well.  Sir  Peter,  in  moments  of  irritation, 
declared  that  she  reminded  him  of  a  'staring 
picture,'  and,  when  her  face  was  in  repose,  her 
Venetian-red  hair,  creamy  skin  and  rather  pro- 
truding brown  eyes,  gave  colour  to  the  descrip- 
tion. Her  mouth,  however,  was  apt  to  betray 
her  feelings  and  now,  as  she  turned  the  pages 
of  the  Queen,,  her  lips  were  set  in  a  distinctly 
sullen  curve. 

The  truth  is  that  Nurse  Coxon  was  in  a  bad 
temper.  Not  only,  to  use  her  own  expression, 
was  she  'sick'  of  her  present  'case'  which,  from 
a  medical  point  of  view,  had  entirely  ceased  to 

293 


294  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

interest  her,  but,  very  largely  for  that  reason, 
her  brain  was  fermenting  with  grievances 
against  her  patient  and  the  other  members  of 
the  household  which,  following  a  process  of  her 
own,  had  developed  spontaneously  from  the  mo- 
ment that  the  claims  upon  her  strictly  profes- 
sional services  had  relaxed.  She  was  one  of 
those  women  who  pursue  the  calling  of  mercy 
with  skill  and  patience  as  long  as  they  see  their 
authority  sure  and  their  aid  indispensable;  be- 
yond that  point  the  quality  of  the  virtue  was 
apt  to  become  distinctly  strained.  She  could 
devote  herself  to  her  patients  during  their  con- 
valescence if,  through  choice  or  necessity,  they 
remained  under  her  rule  and  were  willing  to 
become  what  she  called  'friends' ;  but  if,  like  her 
present  charge,  they  preferred  to  take  their  own 
way  of  getting  well  and  failed  to  show  a  social 
desire  for  her  presence  equal,  in  her  view,  to 
their  former  dependence  upon  it,  she  became 
first  aggrieved,  then  hostile.  In  this  frame  of 
mind  she  was  a  difficult  and  rather  dangerous 
member  of  a  household,  and  unfortunately,  in 
the  present  case,  matters  were  made  worse  by 
a  fundamental  antagonism  between  her  em- 
ployer and  herself,  which  became  more  obvious 
each  day  that  the  former  improved  in  health. 
For  the  consequent  friction,  Mabel  Arbuth- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  295 

not  was  unconsciously  a  good  deal  to  blame.  To 
her,  Nurse  Coxon  in  a  social  aspect,  seemed 
forward  and  rather  vulgar;  she  was  grateful 
for  the  other's  care  but  could  not  contemplate 
any  intimacy  with  her  and  considered  her  own 
part  in  their  daily  relations  to  be  fulfilled  by 
pleasantness  and  civility.  The  fact  that  her 
manner,  which,  to  an  equal,  would  have  seemed 
merely  reserved,  appeared  to  the  nurse  stiff  and 
offensively  condescending,  never  entered  her 
head.  When,  moreover,  events  had  happened 
during  the  past  month  that  were  peculiarly 
fitted  to  increase  the  friction  between  them,  she 
had,  with  an  indifference  based,  as  it  seemed 
to  Nurse  Coxon  on  a  purely  social  advantage, 
ignored  the  attitude  of  the  latter  in  so  far  as 
it  implied  any  criticisms  of  herself,  while  show- 
ing, at  the  same  time,  by  an  increased  distance 
of  bearing,  her  disapproval  of  conduct  which 
the  nurse  chose  to  consider  as  infinitely  less  com- 
promising than  her  own. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Nurse  Coxon  that 
whatever  she  wished  to  believe,  of  anyone  she 
disliked,  was  apt  to  take  possession  of  her  brain 
despite  facts  or  even  probabilities;  and  she  had 
soon  reached  the  point  where  her  grievance 
against  her  patient's  manner  was  merged  in  a 
furious  resentment  at  what  she  termed  the  lat- 


296  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

ter's  'hypocritical  cheek,'  in  objecting  to  her 
relations — such  as  they  were — with  Lord  Dane- 
borough  while  'carrying  on  for  all  she  was  worth 
on  her  own  account.'  Thereafter,  on  the  nurse's 
part  war,  with  any  weapons,  was  silently  de- 
clared between  them,  and,  her  departure  having 
been  delayed  on  the  return  of  the  household 
from  Italy  by  Mrs.  Arbuthnot's  London  doctor, 
she  had,  more  or  less  consciously,  allowed  her 
mind  to  become  obsessed  by  projects  for  'get- 
ting even,'  as  she  expressed  it,  with  her  patient 
before  they  parted. 

Preoccupied  with  such  reflections  she  gazed 
frowningly  at  the  columns  before  her.  Sud- 
denly she  glanced  up.  Through  the  open  door" 
came  the  sound  of  approaching  wheels  and 
voices.  Throwing  down  the  paper  she  turned  to 
retreat  across  the  hall;  then,  as  the  carriage 
pulled  up  some  distance  down  the  drive  and  the 
voices,  after  a  short  discussion,  died  away  in  the 
direction  of  the  West  Garden,  she  moved  back 
to  the  table  and,  perching  herself  on  t'he  arm  of 
the  chair,  picked  up  the  paper  and  returned  to 
her  reading. 

As  the  minutes  passed  her  expression,  which 
had  brightened  at  the  sounds  of  the  arrival 
outside,  became  impatient,  and  she  glanced  from 
time  to  time  at  the  door.  Then  she  smiled  sud- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  297 

denly  and  raised  the  paper  before  her  face; 
hurried  footsteps  approached  along  the  drive 
and  mounted  the  steps. 

Lord  Daneborough,  tightly  encased  in  a  new 
deputy-lieutenant's  uniform,  appeared  on  the 
threshold.  He  halted,  on  catching  sight  of  the 
nurse,  and  glanced  quickly  round  the  room; 
then,  having  deposited  his  cocked  hat  on  a  chair, 
strolled  towards  her  and  extending  a  hand  re- 
moved the  Queen  from  her  grasp. 

"You  might  say  how  d'you  do!"  he  remarked. 

"How  d'you  do." 

Daneborough  looked  her  up  and  down. 
"Nothing  else  you  want  to  say?  I  haven't  seen 
you  for  nearly  a  week!" 

Nurse  Coxon,  her  knees  crossed,  swung  a 
foot  to  and  fro.  "Haven't  you?" 

"No!" 

"Oh."  The  speaker  drawled  at  him,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  his. 

"Don't  be  silly!"  Daneborough  thrust  his 
foot  in  the  path  of  her  shoe.  "Say  something!" 

His  companion  tucked  her  ankle  beneath  the 
chair.  "Can't  think  of  anything.  You're  so 
fond  of  telling  me  what  I  ought  to  say  I've 
given  up  thinking  when  you're  about!"  She 
dropped  her  eyes  suddenly. 


298  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Daneborough  took  a  half -step  and  stood  over 
her.  "Do  you  think  when  I'm  away?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  about  me!" 

Nurse  Coxon  leaned  out  of  the  chair  away 
from  him.  "No,"  she  said. 

"Don't  talk  rot!"  His  lordship  breathed 
audibly,  "say  'yes' !" 

The  nurse  leaned  further  outward,  her  face 
averted.  "Yes,  then!"  she  said,  with  a  faint 
smile. 

Daneborough  snatched  her  wrist  but,  as  he 
bent  to  thrust  his  arm  round  her  shoulders,  she 
leaped  up.  "Let  go,  Lord  Daneborough !  Let 
me  go !  The  others  will  be  here  directly !"  She 
tugged  to  release  her  hand.  "Don't  be  silly!" 

"The  others  are  stuck  in  the  garden  for  tea." 
Daneborough  pulled  her  towards  him.  "Come 
on !  You  can't  get  away !" 

Nurse  Coxon  was  a  powerful  young  woman 
and  for  some  moments,  aided  by  the  slipperiness 
of  her  starched  bands  and  tight  linen  dress,  she 
avoided  his  grasp;  then,  just  as  he  managed  to 
get  an  arm  round  her  waist,  she  pulled  back 
suddenly  and  pointed  over  his  shoulder.  "Take 
care!"  she  cried,  "Here  they  come!" 

Daneborough  turned  involuntarily,  relaxing 
his  grasp.  His  prisoner  snatched  away  her 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  299 

wrist  and  shoving  the  armchair  violently  against 
his  legs,  darted  to  the  door. 

His  lordship,  much  incommoded  by  his  sword, 
toppled  heavily  into  the  seat. 

"Silly!"  said  Nurse  Coxon  from  the  threshold, 
pausing  to  tidy  her  cuffs. 

Daneborough  was  up  in  an  instant.  "You 

little "  Seizing  his  cocked  hat  he  dashed  at 

her. 

"Ta-ta!"  His  companion  waved  her  hand 
and  lifting  her  skirt  ran  down  the  steps.  "Silly !" 
She  fled  across  the  drive  and,  with  Danebor- 
ough a  couple  of  yards  behind,  disappeared 
along  a  path  into  the  shrubbery. 

The  afternoon  light  was  beginning  to  fade; 
a  grey  mist  floated  up  from  the  meadows  be- 
yond the  lawn  and,  within  the  house,  the  shad- 
ows deepened.  Scarcely  had  Nurse  Coxon 
and  her  pursuer  vanished  across  the  drive  when 
a  door,  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  opened  and  Gen- 
eral Mackworth,  still  in  uniform  but  without 
his  sword,  entered.  He  glanced  round,  then 
opened  the  door  wide. 

"Come  in,"  he  said,  "there's  no  one  here." 
Clasping  his  hands  behind  him  he  strolled 
towards  the  table. 

Bishop  Raymond,  his  face  unusually  grave 


300  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

followed  immediately  and,  after  crossing  the 
room,  leaned  against  the  mantelpiece. 

The  sound  of  a  slight  stumble  came  from  the 
door. 

"On  ye  get,  man!"  exclaimed  a  voice. 

Trooper  Leslie  entered  hurriedly.  He  paused 
on  the  threshold,  then  with  a  quick  glance 
round,  retreated  to  the  writing-table  by  the  wall, 
against  which  he  leaned  with  bowed  head.  He 
wore  the  uniform  of  a  trooper  of  the  Protecto- 
rate Frontier  Mounted  Police;  from  his  left 
breast,  suspended  by  its  brilliant  red  ribbon, 
hung  the  Victoria  Cross. 

Captain  Robertson  appeared  at  his  heels,  and, 
with  a  clank  of  heavy  boots  and  spurs,  stepped 
into  the  room  and  shut  the  door. 

A  short  silence  followed.  Robertson  pulled 
off  a  white  gauntlet  and  taking  a  handkerchief 
from  his  cuff,  wiped  his  face  and  moustache. 
He  was  in  the  full  uniform  of  his  regiment; 
the  handsome  white  cord  of  a  company-com- 
mander's whistle  looped  about  his  neck,  his 
sword  slung  in  a  sam-brown  belt  from  his  shoul- 
der, the  broad-brimmed  regimental  hat,  turned 
up  on  one  side,  under  his  arm,  and  on  his  breast 
the  Distinguished  Service  Order  and  three 
South  African  native-war  medals.  In  the  dim 
light  and  amid  the  flowers  and  soft-coloured 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  301 

stuffs  of  the  hall  he  seemed,  with  the  clatter  of 
shining  steel  he  brought  about  him,  as  burnished 
and  formidable  as  a  piece  of  Woolwich  ord- 
nance. 

Returning  the  handkerchief  to  his  sleeve  he 
gave  a  twist  of  his  moustache.  "Well,  what 
is't?"  His  little,  blood-shot  eyes  turned  to  Les- 
lie. " We're  waitin'!" 

Leslie  started  and  dropped  a  letter-clip  he 
had  been  fumbling  with. 

"Excuse  me,  Robertson!"  Bishop  Raymond 
looked  over  from  the  fireplace.  "I'm  not  up 
in  such  matters,  but — shouldn't  General  Mack- 
worth — as  the  senior ?"  he  paused. 

"Certainly  not,  Bishop !"  Mackworth  glanced 
up.  "This  is  a  regimental  affair  as  I  under- 
stand it.  It  would  be  much  better,  really,  if 
you  and  I  were  to  leave  Mr.  Leslie  to  say  what 
he  wants,  to  Captain  Robertson,  alone." 

"No,  please!"  Leslie  started  forward.  "I'd 
rather  you  stayed!" 

Robertson  stared  at  him  and  then  turned  bel- 
ligerently. "D'ye  see,  Bishop?" 

"Yes.  I  beg  your  pardon !"  With  a  nod  the 
bishop  resumed  his  former  attitude.  "Go  on." 

"We're  waitin'  on  him."  The  captain  looked 
at  Leslie.  "Out  wi'  it,  man,"  he  added,  more 
kindly.  "We're  no'  goin'  to  eat  ye!" 


302  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Leslie  glanced  quickly  over  his  shoulder  at 
the  door.  "Don't — don't  let  Major  Vivian 
come!" 

"Losh!"  Robertson  grunted.  "I'd  forgotten 

Veevian!  See  here,  man "  he  continued 

sharply,  but  still  quite  kindly,  "if  ye're  after 
what  I'm  thinkin'  ye  are,  the  major  should  be 
here.  It  was  him  that  got  ye  yon!"  He  nodded 
towards  the  cross  on  the  other's  breast.  "I'll 
see  ye  get  fair  play.  Ye'll  no  forget,  General 
"  he  continued,  turning  to  the  others,  "nor 
you  either,  Bishop,  that  Vesey- Vivian's  no'  a 
major  in  my  regiment  now.  He's  gone  back  to 
the  regulars  as  a  captain  with  three  years  senior- 
ity. I've  five!" 

Bishop  Raymond  and  General  Mackworth 
nodded — the  latter  with  a  faint  smile,  and  the 
speaker  moved  towards  the  door. 

"Stop!"  Leslie  jumped  forward.  "If  you 
call  him  I  won't  say  a  word!  D'you  hear!"  he 
cried  imperiously,  "Stop!" 

"Ye  young  divvle!"  Robertson  paused,  as- 
tonished into  a  sour  smile,  "who  asked  ye  to?" 
Then,  as  the  other  threw  out  a  hand  excitedly. 
"Stop  yer  nonsense  now!"  With  a  sudden 
glare,  "Is  yon  the  way  to  speak  to  me  or  to 
stand  before  an  officer?" 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  303 

Mechanically  the  other  jerked  himself  to  at- 
tention. 

"Watch  yerself,  lad!"  Captain  Robertson 
paused  again.  "See  here,  Leslie,"  he  continued. 
"YeVe  been  goin'  yer  lengths  this  afternoon 
and  we've  all  had  enough  of  it.  It  mun  be  one 
thing  or  another.  Ye  carried  yerself  to-day 
before  Her  Majesty  and  a'  the  rest  of  them  like 
a  whipped  dog,  more  than  a  man  gettin'  his 
V.C. !  There's  neither  sense  nor  decency  in  yon, 
and  for  the  credit  of  the  regiment,  if  for  nothing 
else,  I'll  have  no  more  of  it.  Pull  yerself  to- 
gether man,  and  have  done!" 

Leslie  moved  and  opened  his  mouth. 

"Haud  yer  tongue  and  mind  what  I'm 
sayin'!"  continued  the  speaker.  "I  know  more 
than  ye  think,  mebbe,  of  what's  troublin'  ye.  It's 
no'  as  it  should  be — there's  no  denyin'  that — 
but  others  are  to  blame  besides  you,  and  such 
things  have  happened  before.  Take  my  advice 
and  keep  quiet!  If  ye'd  anything  in  yer  mind 
it  should  have  been  said  before  ye  got  yon,"  he 
pointed  to  the  Victoria  Cross.  "As  it  is,  least 
said,  soonest  mended!  Eh,  Bishop?" 

Bishop  Raymond  lifted  his  arm  from  the 
mantelpiece.  "I  think  Captain  Robertson  is 
right,  Mr.  Leslie,"  he  said  quietly,  moving  for- 
ward. "We've  all  been  in  a  difficult  position — 


304  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Captain  Robertson  and  myself  as  well  as  you. 
You  wish  to  tell  us,  I  think,  that  you  don't 
really  deserve  the  honour  you  received  to-day — 
that  this  is  preying  on  your  mind.  Well,  Cap- 
tain Robertson  and  I  have  guessed  as  much  for 
some  time.  We  suspected,  almost  from  the  first, 
that  the  motives  which  led  you  to  stay  with  Lord 
Daneborough  were  different — er — less  disinter- 
ested than  the  authorities  and  other  people  be- 
lieved. I  daresay  you  are  wondering  why,  if 
this  is  so,  neither  of  us  said  anything  at  the 

time — or  since.  Well "  he  paused,  "you  see 

we  did  not  know  the  facts ;  we  could  only  guess 
at  them:  and  neither  you  nor  Lord  Danebor- 
ough were  in  a  state  to  enlighten  us  at  Macteali. 
Then,  I  doubted  from  the  first — I  doubt  still — 
whether  the  facts  in  this  case  are  everything. 
And  when  it  came  to  trying  to  divine  the — er — 
psychological  causes  behind — to  acting  upon 
them—  Well — they  were  too  much  for  me,  as 
I  suspect  they  were  for  you  too!" 

"He  had  a  try  at  sayin'  something  at  Mac- 
teali," interposed  Robertson. 

"Yes."  The  bishop  nodded.  "I'd  forgotten 
that.  Well,  be  that  as  it  may,  once  Major  Vi- 
vian had  taken  the  matter  into  his  own  hands 

"  the  captain  snorted  loudly,  "and  the  news 

had  spread  among  the  men  and  got  into  the 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  305 

papers  the  time  seemed  past  for  interference 
— especially  as  you  were  in  hospital."  The 
speaker  glanced  at  Mackworth.  "You  see,  don't 
you?" 

The  general  nodded. 

"Besides "  Bishop  Raymond  paused  and 

turned  again  to  Leslie.  "There  was  the  other 
side  of  the  affair —  The  plain  fact  that  you  did 
accomplish  the  feat  for  which  you  were  deco- 
rated to-day — that  you  did  save  your  comrade's 
life  in  circumstances  of  great  hardship  and 
danger.  That,  apart  from  anything  else " 

"But  it  wasn't  apart!  It  isn't!  You  don't 
understand!"  Leslie's  voice,  rising  to  a  shrill 
note,  rang  startlingly  across  the  darkening  hall. 

In  the  pause  that  followed  a  door  opened; 
Lady  Grace  and  Dr.  Florio  appeared,  with  Ve- 
sey- Vivian  and  Sir  Peter  immediately  behind 
them. 

A  complete  silence  fell  on  the  room.  The  only 
movement  was  made  by  Sir  Peter  who,  being 
behind  the  others  and  unable  to  see  what  was 
going  on,  shouldered  slowly  forward  propelling 
Lady  Grace  in  front  of  him.  His  touch  aroused 
her. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  she  said  lamely.  "I 
only  wanted —  Tea's  ready  in  the  drawing- 
room." 


306  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

With  a  clatter  Leslie  dropped  the  letter-clip 
on  the  floor,  straightened  himself,  backed 
against  the  wall  and  faced  the  room. 

"I  wish—  '  he  said  huskily,  then  pausing, 
straightened  himself  further,  his  eyes  fixed  be- 
fore him.  "I've  got  something  to  say "  He 

moistened  his  lips. 

There  was  a  scurry  of  feet  on  the  gravel  and 
the  swish  of  a  skirt  up  the  steps.  Nurse  Coxon, 
breathless  and  laughing,  darted  over  the  thresh- 
old. For  a  second  in  the  comparative  obscurity 
of  the  hall  she  glanced  about  unseeingly,  then 
the  scarlet  and  gold  of  Vesey- Vivian's  tunic 
caught  her  eye;  with  a  startled  exclamation  she 
looked  round  and,  distinguishing  the  others  re- 
treated precipitately,  colliding  on  the  door-mat 
with  Daneborough:  the  latter,  seizing  her  skil- 
fully round  the  waist,  kissed  her  twice. 

At  the  same  moment  a  door  near  the  window 
opened  and  Mabel  entered  behind  them. 

Nurse  Coxon  wrenched  herself  free,  furious- 
ly. "Let  go!"  She  halted,  panting,  with  her 
back  to  the  newcomer. 

"Hang  it,  Gerty !"  His  lordship  stared, 

aggrieved  at  her  violence,  then,  catching  sight 
of  Mabel  over  her  shoulder,  he  stopped  dead 
and,  glancing  quickly  round  the  room,  saw  the 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  307 

onlookers,  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Nurse —  Very 
sorry!" 

The  other  turned  away  angrily  and,  cannon- 
ing into  Mabel,  recoiled  upon  him  with  a  start- 
led scream. 

"Take  care,  Nurse !"  said  Mabel  coldly,  step- 
ping out  of  her  way. 

"Look  out!"  expostulated  Daneborough, 
fending  her  off. 

The  nurse's  temper  went  suddenly  to  pieces. 
"Take  care  of  yourself,  Mrs.  Arbuthnot !"  Her 
big,  bead-like  eyes  rolled  and  she  took  a  step 
forward. 

Mabel,  ignoring  her,  moved  to  the  table  and 
lifted  a  paper. 

"D'you  hear!"  Her  adversary  followed, 
panting.  "You  dare  to  push  me  about!  Just 
you  take  care  or " 

"Steady — Steady,"  exclaimed  Daneborough 
pacifically. 

"Leave  me  alone!"  The  nurse  flung  past 
him.  "You  won't  listen,  won't  you!"  She 
snatched  the  paper  out  of  Mabel's  hands. 
"Now!  Just  you  take  care!  You  touch  me 
again  if  you  dare.  Say  one  word  and  I'll  tell 
what  I  know  about  your  goings-on.  It's  no 
kissing  matter  with  you!" 


308  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Nurse  Coxon!"  Bishop  Raymond  raised  his 
hand  imperiously. 

"Who's  speaking  to  you!"  Nurse  Coxon 
turned  on  him  in  shrill  fury.  "I  know!  She's 
your  cousin!  You  pretend  to  be  a  bishop  and 
all  the  rest  of  it  but  when  it's  one  of  your  pre- 
cious relations  that  kicks  over  the  traces — then, 
of  course,  it's  all  right!  Faugh!" 

"Look  here,  Gerty "  interrupted  Dane- 
borough  angrily. 

"Oh  yes,  of  course!"  The  speaker  flung 
round.  "She's  your  cousin  too!  You  cad!"  she 
cried,  bursting  out  at  him.  "After  disgracing 
me  before  every  one,  to  turn  and  back  her  up 
when  she's  treated  you  like  a  dog,  whistling  you 
here  and  throwing  you  over  for  that  young  fool 
half  her  age!" 

"Nurse  Coxon,  leave  the  room!"  interrupted 
Lady  Grace  with  dignity. 

"I  won't!"  screamed  the  other.  "I'll  not 
leave  the  room!  It's  true!  I'll  teach  you  all 
to  treat  me  like  this.  Ask  her!  Ask  him!  Ah — 

ha "  she  pointed.  "See  there!  Who's  right 

now?  Ask  him  where  he  spent  the  night  he  ar- 
rived. Ask  him  how  Dr.  Florio's  red  globe  got 
into  Mrs.  Arbuthnot's  room  in  the  middle  of 
the  night!  She'll  brazen  it  out  and  lie  same  as 
she  did  at  tea  next  day  but  see  what  he's  got 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  309 

to  say!  He  hasn't  the  pluck  to  deny  it!"  The 
speaker's  finger  wavered  with  the  excitement 
of  a  sudden  inspiration  as  she  pointed  at 
Trooper  Leslie.  "He's  too  much  of  a  coward,, 
that's  what  he  is !" 


CHAPTER   XVI 

NURSE  COXON'S  words  produced  a  series  of 
sensations. 

Leslie,  leaning  on  the  writing-table,  his  head 
bowed,  had  watched  her  outburst  with  a  look  of 
dazed  surprise.  At  the  phrase,  'a  young  fool 
half  her  age,'  his  face  flushed  crimson.  He 
turned  hastily  to  Mabel  as  if  in  apology,  then, 
recoiling  under  the  sudden  onslaught  of  the 
nurse's  explicit  accusation,  halted  before  her 
denouncing  finger  in  horrified  silence. 

.  .  .  ask  him!  Ah — ha.  See  there!' 
The  shrill  voice  rose  in  triumph,  '  .  .  .  ask 
him  .  .  .  She'll  brazen  it  out  .  .  .  but 
see  what  he's  got  to  say!' 

His  eyes  raced  round  the  room. 

'  .  .  .  hasn't    got    the   pluck    to    deny    it!' 

For  an  instant  his  glance  returned  to  the 
speaker,  and  he  shook  his  head  vehemently; 
then,  with  a  stagger  and  a  slip  on  the  polished 
floor,  he  backed  against  the  wall. 

'He's  too  much  of  a  coward,  that's  what  he 
is!' 

310 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

The  final  insult  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  break 
a  spell. 

"How  dare  you!"  Mabel,  with  an  indignant 
gesture,  stepped  towards  him. 

"Dear !"    Lady  Grace  ran  to  her. 

"Lady  Grace! "  began  Bishop  Raymond, 

raising  a  peremptory  hand. 

"  Signorina!  !" 

"What  the  devil  are  you  talking  about,  Ger- 


Dr.  Florio  and  Lord  Daneborough  advanced 
hastily  on  Nurse  Coxon  from  opposite  points. 

"Damn  that  woman!  What  rot!"  exclaimed 
Sir  Peter. 

For  the  moment  attention  passed  from  Les- 
lie. Then  Captain  Robertson  tramped  heavily 
behind  the  others  towards  him.  "Speak  up, 
man  I"  he  said  in  a  gruff  undertone. 

"Well,  he  looks  it!"  The  nurse's  voice  rang 
out  defiantly,  "that's  all  I  mean!" 

Leslie  met  his  superior's  eye  and  nodded;  he 
swallowed  once  or  twice  and  motioned  him  aside. 

"Excuse  me,  please!"  stepping  between  Lady 
Grace  and  Mabel,  he  made  his  way  round  the 
table.  His  hand  was  pressed  to  his  side,  and  his 
face  had  turned  suddenly  grey,  but  his  shoul- 
ders were  erect  and  he  held  himself  with  some 
dignity. 


312  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

He  halted  before  Nurse  Coxon. 

"You've  made  a  mistake "  He  paused* 

and  straightened  himself  further.  "I  under- 
stand in  a  way — but —  You're  frightfully 
wrong,  all  round,  about — about  Mrs.  Arbuth- 
not!  It's  so  awfully  unlike  what — what  you 
seem  to  think.  I " 

"You  needn't  go  into  that,  Mr.  Leslie." 
Bishop  Raymond  stepped  forward.  "I  know 
the  whole  story!  Nurse  Coxon  has  chosen  to 
put  a  disagreeable  and  silly  construction  upon 
a  perfectly  simple  event.  There  is  not  one  shad- 
ow of  truth " 

"Isn't  there?"  The  nurse  flared  up.  "All 
very  fine  to  call  me  a  liar!"  She  turned  to  the 
others.  "Just  you  listen " 

Leslie  raised  his  hand.  "Don't!  Please  don't 
begin  about  that  again.  You  are  utterly  wrong 
about  all  that — really!3'  he  met  her  eye.  "But" 
— his  face  contracted  in  a  spasm — "the  other 
thing — I  don't  know  how  you  meant  it  exactly 
— but  you  were  right  about  it!" 

"About  what,  Mr.  Leslie?"  exclaimed  Lady 
Grace  sharply. 

"About  me.  When  she  said — that — about 
my  being — being  a  coward!" 

There  was  a  painful  silence.    With  a  quick 


THE   RECONNAISSANCE  313 

movement  Mabel,  putting  out  an  arm,  steadied 
herself  against  the  table. 

Mackworth  walked  over  to  Leslie  and  placed 
a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Leslie,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing, "to  use  your  own  words — 'don't  begin  about 
that  again!'  Most  of  us  know  your  peculiar 
point  of  view  about  yourself.  It's  most  orig- 
inal— but,  don't  you  think  you  might  give  it 
a  rest  for  a  bit?" 

The  younger  man  stared  at  him.  "Don't!" 
He  lifted  the  hand  from  his  shoulder.  "You 
don't  understand.  I  can't  rest — I've  got  to 
tell!" 

The  general,  suddenly  grave,  turned  away. 

"Don't  go!"  Leslie  caught  his  arm.  "You 
must  listen !  I  wanted  to  speak  to-day — at  the 
Castle — before  it  was  too  late.  You  don't 
know  what  to-day's  been  like — I  think  it's  about 
killed  me,"  he  caught  his  breath  startlingly. 
"But — I  just  couldn't!  And  then — then  I 
nearly  pushed  the  Queen  away  when  she  was 

pinning  it "  he  clutched  the  cross  on  his 

breast,  "on  to  me.  It's  been  awful!"  He 
paused.  "I  tried  to  tell  you  when  we  got  back 
and  you  wouldn't  listen,  and  talked  and  talked 
till  you  nearly  drove  me  mad!  From  the  start 
nobody's  done  anything  but  talk — the  papers 
and  everybody — till — till — I  didn't  know  where 


314  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

to  God  I  was !  ...  It  isn't  fair !  It's  not 

my  fault !  I  tried  at  Macteali,  but  you "  he 

turned  on  Vesey- Vivian,  "wouldn't  listen.  You 
talked  and  talked  and  wouldn't  try  to  under- 
stand!" 

Captain  Vivian  stared  at  him  irritably.  "I 
don't  know  now,  what  you're  going  on  about. 
Sounds  absolute  nonsense!  What  didn't  I  un- 
derstand?" 

"That  I'd  funked!  Funked  from  start  to 
finish — that  I  ought  to  have  been  kicked  out 
of  the  regiment  and  shot,  instead  of  getting  the 
V.C.!"  Leslie  clapped  the  palms  of  his  hands 
over  his  face.  "That's  what  you've  none  of  you 
understood !" 

"Stop!  Stop!"  Mabel  caught  up  her  gown 
and  ran  to  him.  "You're  telling  it  wrong! 
Don't !"  She  gazed  over  her  shoulder  round  the 
half -circle  of  faces.  "I  know!  He's  told  me. 
There's  nothing  wrong.  It's  only  because  he's 

not  well  he's  telling  it  that  way.  Please " 

she  touched  Leslie's  elbow.  "Please  wait! 
Please!" 

"Don't!"  Leslie  thrust  out  both  hands  as 
though  to  ward  her  off.  "You  mustn't!  You 
understand  less  than  any  one — that's  what's  so 
awful!" 

"Never  mind — tell  me  some  other  time — it's 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  315 

only "  her  voice  rose  piteously,  "because  you 

are  ill " 

"111!"  cried  the  other,  loudly,  stepping  away 
from  her.  "Yes— that's  it!  That's  the  truth! 
I've  always  been  ill  that  way — always!  Good 

God! "  he  turned  to  her.  "Can't  you  see? 

It's  been  that  every  time — about  the  screen — 
about  the  doctor's  globe —  Just  now  when  I 
couldn't  speak!  Can't  you  understand  that  the 
reason  I  stayed  with  Daneborough  was  that  I'd 
rather  have  died — anything — anything  than 
tried  to  get  back  to  Derby  alone  that  night !  I 
didn't  care  about  Slade's  patrol  or  anything 

!"  he  choked.  "Of  course,  I  carried  him 

and  looked  after  him!  If  anything  had  hap- 
pened to  him  I'd  have  gone  mad!  I  couldn't 
have  found  my  way  back  to  Derby  that  night — 
let  alone  getting  to  Macteali!  And  then  those 
frightful  days  hiding,  with  the  Amatonga  all 
round.  How  could  I  have  got  through  them? 
How  could  I  have  got  water? — food? — any- 
thing? Of  course,  I  stuck  to  him!" 

"But "  Mabel  put  a  hand  to  her  forehead. 

Leslie  stared  at  her.  "I  funked!"  he  said, 
and  repeated,  "I  funked!" 

Mabel  sank  into  a  chair  and  covered  her 
face. 


316  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Here,    I   say! •"    Vesey- Vivian    pushed 

forward.    "If  all  this  is  true " 

Leslie  faced  him  and  put  out  an  elbow. 
"Wait!  There's  no  use  kicking  up  a  row."  He 
fumbled  with  both  hands  at  the  ribbon  on  his 
breast,  trying  to  undo  the  pin.  "It's  all  up. 
I've  tried.  It's  her  like  what  you  think  now, 
either!  I've  always  been  trying — all  my  life. 
I  only  wanted  a  chance " 

"But  you  got  your  chance!"  Mabel  looked 
up  slowly. 

"It  came  too  soon!  It  wasn't  fair,  somehow. 
Leslie  gazed  at  her.  "I  wanted  a  chance  to 
learn  first.  You  won't  understand.  I'd  never 
had  that  sort  of  thing — horses — that  sort  of  life 
.  .  .  the  way  fellows  you  know,  have:  and 
they're  part  of  it  all — of  not  minding  .  .  . 

to  a  fellow  like  me.     I  can't  explain "  he 

paused  moodily,  "I'd  have  been  all  right  if " 

"I  shouldn't  make  excuses  if  I  were  you!" 
interrupted  Vivian  contemptuously.  "Please 
give  me  that !"  he  pointed  to  the  Victoria  Cross. 

"I  won't!"  Leslie  raised  his  arm  angrily. 
"I  knew  you'd  none  of  you  understand!  It's 

— it's  a  caddish  shame  to "  his  voice  rose 

hysterically  and,  tearing  the  cross  from  his  tu- 
nic, he  darted  to  the  open  door  and  threw  back 
his  hand. 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  317 

"Stop  him,  Brown!"  cried  Robertson  sharply. 

Lord  Daneborough  seized  the  trooper's  arm. 
"Don't  be  an  ass !"  he  said  gruffly. 

"Give  it  to  me!"  Vesey- Vivian  stepped  for- 
ward with  outstretched  hand. 

"Here!"  Captain  Robertson  shoved  past  him. 

Leslie  handed  the  ribbon  listlessly  to  his  su- 
perior. 

"Here,  General."  Robertson  turned  to 
Mackworth. 

"After  a  moment's  hesitation  the  latter  took 
the  cross. 

"General  Mackworth "  exclaimed  Vivian 

angrily,  "I  appeal  to  you!  I  got  this  fellow 
his  V.C.!  Right  or  wrong,  I'm  responsible. 
Now  that  he  turns  out  on  his  own  showing  to 
be  a  coward  and  a  cur — the  least  I  can  do  is  to 
hand  it  back  and  explain!" 

"One  moment,  Vivian."  The  general 
smoothed  the  ribbon  in  his  hand.  "What  are 
you  going  to  explain?  Leslie  got  this  for  sav- 
ing Daneborough's  life.  You  can't  explain  that 
he  didn't  do  that?" 

"No,  but  he  funked  first — he  says  so  himself! 
Why  didn't  Lord  Daneborough  do  his  duty  and 
report  that,  either  at  the  time,  or  since?" 

"You'd  better  ask  him,  Vivian." 


318  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

"Why  didn't  you?"  Vesey- Vivian  turned 
sharply  to  Daneborough. 

Gerald  had  had  a  trying  hour:  he  was  now 
becoming  more  puzzled,  and  consequently,  more 
sulky,  every  minute. 

"How  the "  he  gulped  in  an  effort  to 

limit  his  vocabulary,  "blazes  was  I  to  know  he 
'funked,'  as  you  call  it?  I  never  heard  such 
rot  in  my  life!  If  you  think  you're  going  to 
drag  me  into  all  this  talk,  talk,  talk,  you're 
damned  well  mistaken !  So  there !  How  was  I 
to  know  he  didn't  know  the  way!"  he  added, 
muttering  angrily. 

This  remark  produced  something  of  a  sensa- 
tion; Captain  Robertson  laughed  loudly. 

"D'you  mean  to  say "  demanded  Vesey- 

Vivian,  outraged,  "you  would  have  accepted 
that  as  an  excuse  for  refusing  to  obey  orders?" 

"Really,  Lord  Daneborough!"  exclaimed 
Lady  Grace. 

"Look  here "  Gerald  faced  his  former 

commander,  "You  leave  him  alone,  will  you,  and 
me  too!  I've  had  about  as  much  as  I  can  stick 
for  one  afternoon !  I  haven't  understood  a  sin- 
gle word  from  start  to  finish,  first  about  Mabel 
and  then  all  this  rot  about  Leslie.  All  I  know 
is,  any  one  with  half  an  eye  could  see  that  Les- 
lie's knocked  out  and  has  talked  a  lot  of  bun- 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  319 

kum ;  and  if  you  think  I'm  going  to  turn  round 
and  call  him  a  funk,  simply  because  he's  been 
trying  to  make  out  he's  not  the  hero  you  took 
him  for,  you're  dashed  well  wrong !" 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question,  Lord 
Daneborough,"  said  Vesey-Vivian,  with  dig- 
nity. 

"I've  answered  as  much  as  I'm  going  to!" 
Daneborough  turned  on  him  roughly.  "See? 
Leslie  stuck  to  me  like  a  good  'un.  It  isn't 
only  that  he  saved  my  life  as  you  call  it,  but — 
well — he  was  jolly  decent  when  I  was  feeling 
bad  and  when  he  must  have  been  pretty  near 
dead-beat  carrying  me — jolly  decent,  I  can  tell 
you!"  Gerald  paused,  then  continued  irrita- 
bly, to  cover  his  feelings.  "You  take  my  tip, 
Vivian,  and  watch  out  about  calling  people 
funks!  If  you  knew  a  bit  more  about  active 
service  you'd  be  jolly  careful  about  slinging 
names !  Most  fellows  who  are  worth  a  blow  get 
the  funks  sometimes,  only  they  don't  talk  about 
it.  If  it's  a  true  bill,  and  the  fellow's  a  cur  and 
a  rotter  like  you're  now  trying  to  make  out 
Leslie  is,  you  may  bet  your  boots  it'll  get  spotted 
without  him  having  to  tell  you  all  about  it  him- 
self for  half-an-hour  on  end.  And  it's  the  same 
with  all  this  rot  about  heroes!  Why  the  devil 
can't  you  take  chaps  as  they  come  instead  of 


320  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

going  on  like  a  newspaper  or  a  lot  of  women? 
You  don't  hear  fellows  who've  been  through  the 
real  thing  talking  about  heroes  and  funks — ask 
the  Bishop  or  Robertson — they  know  a  darn 
sight  better.  That's  what's  wrong  here — a 
dashed  sight  too  much  talk!  Any  fool  could 
see  that  Leslie's  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other 
—he's  simply  a  very  decent  sort  of  young  ass 
who  hasn't  found  his  feet!  That's  all!" 

"Good  for  you,  Brown!"  Captain  Robert- 
son banged  his  hands  together  in  delight. 
"Ye've  hit  it,  man— ye've  hit  it!" 

"General  Mackworth "  Vesey-Vivian 

turned  angrily. 

Mackworth  glanced  away  with  a  curt  nod. 
"I've  nothing  to  add,  Vivian." 

"Bishop — surely  you " 

"I  think  Daneborough  has  said  the  last  word 
in  the  matter,  Vivian!" 

At  Bishop  Raymond's  reply,  Mabel,  as 
though  in  sudden  pain,  clasped  her  fingers  be- 
fore her  eyes.  Mackworth,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing her  across  the  table,  looked  round. 

"Leslie!"  he  called,  "come  here,  will  you?" 

The  younger  man  started,  and  went  forward 
to  the  table. 

Mackworth  smiled.     "  'Shun!"  he  said. 

Leslie  came  clumsily  to  'attention.' 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  321 

The  general  bent  forward  and,  with  some 
difficulty,  re-pinned  the  Victoria  Cross  upon  the 
other's  tunic. 

"Three  cheers !"  called  out  Daneborough  from 
beside  the  door. 

"Nonsense,  Daneborough!"  Mackworth 
looked  up  good-humouredly,  "you'll  bring  the 

house  down!  Aunt  Grace "  he  turned  to 

the  old  lady,  "don't  you  think  we  might  have 
tea?" 

"Yes,  certainly,  Hugh,"  replied  Lady  Grace, 
in  subdued  tones.  "Will  you  come,  dear?"  she 
added,  turning  to  Mabel. 

Mabel  rose  and  crossed  the  hall. 

General  Mackworth  stood  by  the  door  as  the 
others  filed  out:  motioning  to  Sir  Peter  to  gff 
on  ahead,  he  touched  Leslie  on  the  arm. 

"One  moment,  Leslie.  I  heard  to-day  at  the 
Castle  that  you'd  got  your  commission — it's  to 
be  gazetted  to-morrow.  General  Stuart  is  just 
starting  for  this  row  in  West  Africa.  He  wants 
an  A.D.C.,  and  I  spoke  to  him  about  you.  If 
you  care  about  it,  he'll  take  you ;  but  you'll  have 
to  go  and  see  him  to-night  at  the  'Naval  and 
Military,'  and  be  ready  to  start  off  at  once. 
What  d'you  think?" 

The  blood  rushed  to  the  other's  face.     "It's 


322  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 


awfully  good  of  you,  Sir — most  awfully " 

he  stammered,  "but " 

"If  I  were  you,  I'd  go!  There  will  be  some 
pretty  stiff  fighting,  I  expect.  It's  a  good 
chance."  Mackworth  looked  at  his  companion. 

There  was  a  short  pause.  "Thanks  awfully, 
Sir — you're  most  awfully  good."  Leslie  glanced 
up.  "It'll  be  a  chance!"  He  swayed  suddenly 
and  put  out  a  hand. 

The  general  grasped  it  pleasantly.  "All 
right.  Very  glad  you  can  go !"  He  steered  the 
other  through  the  door.  "Then  you'll  see  Gen- 
eral Stuart  to-night.  We  can  take  that  as  set- 
tled." 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE  twilight  faded.  Shadows  crept  across 
the  lawn  from  the  shrubberies  and  plantations, 
and  the  bend  of  the  drive  vanished  before  the 
gathering  dusk.  Within  the  hall  the  great  ob- 
longs of  the  open  door  and  windows  shone  with 
the  last  reflection  of  the  sunset. 

Mabel  walked  across  the  floor  and  gazed  into 
the  gloaming;  Bishop  Raymond  closed  the  door 
through  which  they  had  entered  and  followed 
her  slowly. 

"Never  mind,  St.  John."  She  put  out  a  hand, 
without  turning  her  head.  "Don't  worry!  It 
was  sweet  of  you  to  come  away — I'll  be  all 
right  ...  I  just  couldn't  stay  longer.  The 
room — the  room  was  hot,  I  think."  She  pressed 
a  handkerchief  quickly  to  her  eyes  and  moved 
nearer  to  the  threshold  of  the  door. 

"Perhaps — perhaps  it's  better — I  don't  know. 

I "  her  voice  shook.  "He  was  such  a  dear 

boy!  So  exactly  what  one  ...  I  don't 

323 


324  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

seem  able  to  realise  it — even  now."  She  turned 
and  sank  into  a  chair. 

"But,  Mabel,  there's  nothing  really  wrong — 
I  mean— 

"Don't,  St.  John.  Please — oh!  can't  you 
see  .  .  ." 

"You  heard  what  Gerald  said — what  we  all 
said- 

"Yes,  you  were  all  very  good.  I  think  men 
are  always  good  that  way — but,  it's  no  use!  I 
suppose  it's  just  because  I'm  a  woman  I  can't 
feel  like  that — can't  forgive.  It  isn't  his  fault! 
I  made  a  mistake  ...  I  thought  because 
— because  I  had  suffered,  perhaps — that  some- 
thing had  been  given — that  I  was  being  allowed 
to  'dream  true,'  so  to  speak.  It  wasn't  life  at  all 
.  .  .  Even  he,  was  never  real,  quite.  I  was 
like  a  child  with  a  story.  I  recognised  the  Prince 
by  'something' — and  you  see,"  she  smiled  pain- 
fully, "it  was  something  he  hadn't  got  at  all! 
Don't  think  I'm  hard—  '  she  glanced  up. 
"But,  you  see — he  never  knew  ...  I  can't 
think  of  him — yet.  Poor  boy !  I  think  he's  very 
brave  .  .  .  But — 'the  glory  is  departed' 
.  .  .  'A  very  decent  sort  of  young  ass  who 
hasn't  found  his  feet !' '  Her  lips  trembled  and 
she  hid  her  face. 

The  gloaming  deepened.     Bishop  Raymond 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  325 

moved  to  the  doorway  and  gazed  out  over  the 
darkening  fields. 

Lady  Grace  entered  noiselessly.  "Mabel, 
dear — Mr.  Leslie  is  just  off.  Would  you  like 
to  say  good-bye?  He  has  to  go  at  once."  She 
glanced  at  Bishop  Raymond  who,  turning  to 
the  threshold,  walked  out  on  to  the  steps. 

Mabel  started  and  looked  up.    "Where  ?" 

"He's  going  as  A.D.C.  to  General  Stuart. 
Hugh  has  just  told  us.  They  leave  for  West 
Africa  to-morrow  or  the  next  day." 

Mabel  rose  and  went  towards  the  fireplace. 

"Perhaps  you  are  too  tired,  dear — " 

"No,  where  is  he?" 

"He's  just  here!"  Lady  Grace,  after  a  dis- 
turbed glance  at  her  cousin,  slipped  out  of  the 
room. 

Leslie  entered.  He  hesitated  in  the  semi- 
darkness,  then  made  his  way  across  the  hall. 

"I've  come — to  say  good-bye." 

For  a  moment  Mabel  remained  leaning 
against  the  mantelpiece.  Then  she  turned. 

He  looked  up.    "Can  you  ever ?" 

Mabel  took  his  hand  in  hers.  "Remember,  I 
understand  at  last!"  she  said  quickly. 

Leslie  gazed  at  her. 

"Yes,"  she  continued.  "You  must  forgive  me 
— for  being  as  I  was,  here,  a  little  while  ago.  I 


326  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

was  thinking  of  myself  .  .  .  You  must 
please  forgive  me!  But  now — just  this  mo- 
ment, when  I  heard  you  were  going  away — I  un- 
derstood quite  suddenly :  the  way  one  does  when 
people  go — or  die.  .  .  . 

"We  have  only  a  moment — I  can't  express 
myself  well.  But — you  must  never  be  afraid 
again — afraid  of  yourself,  I  mean.  All  that  is 
past!  You  heard  what  they  said.  Men  who 
know.  You've  fought  far  too  hard — too 
bravely  .  .  . "  she  paused.  "And  remem- 
ber, you've  made  your  reconnaissance — that's  the 
word,  isn't  it? — once  and  for  all!  When  you 
went  out  with  Gerald  over  the  veld  that  evening, 
you  found  the  real  enemy — within  yourself. 
You  had  gone  out  to  look  for  him,  hadn't  you?" 

Leslie  nodded.    "I'd  always  been  looking." 

"And  yet  you  say  you  are  a  coward?  Well 
.  .  .  don't  search — don't  reconnoitre 
among  these  imaginary  perils,  ever  any  more. 
Trust  to  what  is  brave  and  steadfast  in  yourself 
— to  what  made  Gerald  speak  as  he  did  of  you, 
just  now,  before  us  all."  She  released  his  hand. 

"And  remember "  she  turned  her  face 

away,  "you  must  be  true  to  something  else  in 
yourself — to  something  that  will  make  people 
believe  in  you  and — and  care  for  you,  always 


THE    RECONNAISSANCE  327 

Her  voice  died  away. 

A  door  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room  opened, 
throwing  a  brilliant  shaft  of  light  along  the 
floor;  a  footman,  carrying  Leslie's  regimental 
hat  and  cloak,  walked  across  the  hall  to  the  front 
door.  From  the  drive  came  the  sound  of  voices : 
a  carriage  drove  round  the  corner  of  the  house 
and  pulled  up  beside  the  steps. 

General  Mackworth  appeared  on  the  thresh- 
old. 

"Tell  him  to  hurry  up,  Hugh!"  called  Sir 
Peter,  from  the  drive.  "He'll  lose  his  train!" 

"Good-bye,"  Mabel  held  out  her  hand.  Her 
face  shone  very  white  in  the  gloom. 

Leslie,  after  a  momentary  hesitation,  bent  and 
kissed  her  fingers.  "I  can't  ever  thank  you " 

She  looked  at  him  intently.  "Good-bye — 
good-bye!"  Releasing  her  fingers  she  turned 
back  to  the  mantelpiece. 

For  a  moment  he  lingered;  then,  as  she  did 
not  move,  he  walked  to  the  front  door.  General 
Mackworth  stood  outside  on  the  step. 

Leslie  came  to  'attention.'    "Good-bye,  sir." 

"Good-bye,  Leslie."  The  general  held  out  his 
hand.  "I'll  see  you  to-morrow." 

Leslie  put  on  his  uniform  hat  and  adjusted 
the  chin  strap.  Suddenly  he  faced  round  and 
gazed  across  the  hall. 


328  THE    RECONNAISSANCE 

Mabel  leaned  motionless,  as  he  had  left  her, 
her  black  dress  showing  dimly  against  the  mar- 
ble of  the  fireplace. 

He  raised  his  hand  and  saluted ;  then,  crossing 
the  threshold,  descended  the  steps.  A  moment 
later  the  carriage  door  slammed. 

"Good-bye !  Good-bye !  Good  luck  to  you !" 
A  confusion  of  farewells  rose  from  the  bystand- 
ers. 

"Right  behind!"  called  Sir  Peter. 

The  footman  jumped  on  to  the  box  and  the 
carriage  started. 

"Three  cheers!"  shouted  Daneborough  some 
distance  down  the  drive. 

*•         *         *         * 

As  the  last  cheer  died  away  Mabel  raised  her 
head  and,  lifting  the  train  of  her  gown,  ran  to 
the  window.  She  peered  after  the  receding  car- 
riage, her  handkerchief  fluttering;  then,  as  the 
hoofs  clattered  round  the  bend,  she  swayed  and 
caught  hold  of  the  sill.  General  Mackworth 
took  a  quick  step  forward.  She  glanced  round 
and  put  out  her  hand  towards  him. 


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The  Post  Office 

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delight  in  Amal,  the  little  boy,  and  in  his  visitors.  Mr.  Tagore  in  The 
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which  proved  to  be  one  of  the  sensations  of  the  New  Theatre's  short 
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the  printed  page  than  in  the  theatre.  There  is  little  doubt  but  that  the 
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